#it’s not even tied together its one of those string braided ones

[hearty-an0n]

found a picture my old best friend made for me when we were six while cleaning my room

[sculptorofcrimson]

Thread/Soulmate Warhammer AU

Not really a soulmate AU, but more of "threads of fate" au.

~~~~

Ra’s thread is a thin, fragile thing. The Emperor had been loath to break it, had hesitated, His claws hovering over the delicate braid. He had held it, as delicate as the umbilical cord of a newborn, and grieved as He felt what He had to do. In the end He had wrapped it in gossamer like the finest of silk, and woven it, with infinite care, into His own. 

When Drach'nyen thrust itself in, it had severed both threads.

~

Valdor’s thread is crimson. The Emperor had cut off at his wrist, with the only remnants wrapped around his forearm like a chain. The ends still twitch and tangle, as if waiting for a man he had lost before they even met. The Emperor took the frayed threads of the severed rope, and bound it to Him. 

Now it wraps around Valdor’s throat like a leash. (Or a noose.)

Valdor does not mind. 

(Once, only once, in mere moments before Constantin lowered the blade, he had seen the flash of recognition. The sudden unknotting of a thread of fate both had assumed severed so long ago. 

And then the mercy blow. A horrible moment of terrible pity etched across his victim’s pain-stricken face, and the sadness in those tormented eyes not for himself but for Valdor. 

And, finally, oblivion. )

~

Sanguinius’ thread is black. He can see it, twisting there, stretching onwards, inked across the sands of time. When he had met Horus, the Angel had stalled, a smile still stretched across his face, noting down the way his thread had wrapped itself lazily around Horus’ arms. Their threads had tumbled and tangled over one another, so deeply intertwined it was impossible to remove without severing one. 

Horus did not seem to see a thing amiss. 

~

Lorgar, his thread brilliant red, wrapped around the Emperor’s chest. The way he had screamed at the fury in His eyes when He had reached up and tore the thread out of His breast, snapping the thin thing in half beneath His claws. The way he had cursed Him, the remnants of the thread pooling around him like shed snakeskin, the scent of Monarchia’s ashes curdling upon his tongue.

~

Alpharius and Omegon’s threads, a single, thick cord that split in half, bobbing and weaving until neither could tell who was whose. It just seems to love knots, looping around itself, around others, dragging others together without abandon. 

~

Vulkan’s thread, thick and dark and braided, glowing softly with a gentle warmth. It trails itself around his chest, wrapping itself around all near and wide, spreading like a kind coat of flame. It is tender, such a lovely thing. It has chipped, and knotted, and frayed over the eons, but it braids on, thick and resolute. Ashes are embedded in its strings now, but their warmth is still there, just buried under the charcoal. 

~

Fulgrim’s thread was made of silk. A beautiful, perfect, fragile thing. It had bound itself around his hands, around Ferrus’ silver hands and his neck. The delicate silk, so pale against the silver. And how pitifully it had shattered, without a cry, without a song, only with the slithering of sick silk as he had snapped it when the Laerblade took Ferrus’ head. 

~

Ferrus’ thread was a chain. It wrapped around his neck and hands. It had pooled itself slowly around Fulgrim, like a lazy snake, braiding itself together into intricate knots with his silk. When Fulgrim took his head from his shoulders, the links had shattered. 

~

Horus’ thread, white and black. It tied itself so languishly over one of his forearms. If only he had known. If only he had seen. If only he had felt the thread tightening, tugging, unraveling as he had sped his way down a path, and never glanced back upon the road he had trodden. When it finally spun itself out of silk, it tied together in one, final blasphemy of angel feathers. Both tips of their threads had been charred together, one longer than the other.

It was Horus that undid the knot. 

He did not even see it unravel when he cut the life out of his brother. 

~

Malcador’s thread. Grey, seemingly thin, but with an impossible, resolute strength. There it was, underpinning the Emperor's thread like a shadow, together even in death. How brightly it had burned, like candlewick, as he sat upon the Throne, eyes bulging, nerves burning, feeling the cells in his body die one by one. It had charred itself to cinders, and then to ash, and finally dust, before his lord made it back home.

~

And finally, the Emperor's thread. It wrapped around Himself, and only Himself, but it branched off like the leaves of Yggdrasil. It curled itself into the veins of His Custodes, it dragged together the binds of His Primarchs, it curled together like one with Malcador. Some branches were frayed, their ends charred, some had curled up into a solitary knot that no longer held another, some burnt like living, writhing sunlight caught in flesh, but some were warm. Some still dreamt, lazily winding through the fog, one out of thousands. They would bind themselves not to men, or to women, but to entire worlds, to every last beating heart upon the land. It was not a leash, or a noose, or a chain this time, it was merely a bridge, the last heart of a dead god who had once gazed upon His people. And smiled.

[awritesthings1]

How to Disappear (Chapter 7)

Anakin Skywalker x Reader

Word Count: 3.5k

Summary: The finale. Vader must choose where his loyalties lie.

ao3 link

-

Your skin itches. His true name sits under there, marked into your bones. Separated by two different worlds yet tied together by an invisible string. You tried outrunning it, hiding behind mountain peaks and the blinding light of stars. But he always found you in the end, whether he meant to or not. Resisting was futile. You knew your next confrontation was inevitable.

Guilt, your new companion, shadowed your journey. You hadn’t seen Anakin—Vader in a while. So much has happened since then. On Lothal, you felt so close yet so far away from him. He was different—hollower. And yet you let yourself believe that your Anakin was fighting somewhere inside the shell of his body because you couldn’t let him go. Selfish, maybe, but you never got to say goodbye. How could you do it now?

You pondered those thoughts adrift in the galaxy, allowing yourself to be swept away in the Force and guide you to wherever and whenever it needed. The silence breathes life into nearby systems, inhaling the darkness and allowing light to diffuse. It works together as one body, balancing the good and the bad like a mastered routine. And for a moment, you were able to catch a breath, close your eyes, and drift away. Where would you appear next? You would ask. The Force never replied; it only pulsed, sending electrical signals across the galaxy. Your head whipped back as it took hold of you, relaying various flashes of images, scents, and sounds until it formed one picture.

Coruscant.

Dark, gloomy, lifeless Coruscant. Once a home, now a graveyard. The once mesmerizing skyline had diminished. Sharp skyscrapers that used to reflect the sun now stand as bleak overcrowded blocks. Even the Temple sits quietly in the absence of the Jedi, as it is afraid to make a sound. The marble floors no longer gleamed, and the pillars were singed from lightsaber strikes.

A shiver cascades down your spine.

Under your feet, a metal grate hides a room under the floor. For a faint moment, you see yourself looking back up at you from beneath it. Anakin is beside you with his Padawan braid, sulking at his new metal arm. Your eyes widen as you reach down towards them, but you slip through the floor into the room. When you look up, your younger self is gone along with Anakin. All that remains is a collection of Master Yoda’s candles that are spilled in a pile on the floor. You hope Yoda made it out of this mess.

The next time you blink, you are in a corridor. It stretched from one shadow to the next. Rust grew on a leaking pipe above your head, dripping dangerously close to loose hanging wires. Air evaporated over a heated air duct, emitting a foul stench. The Force buzzes inside you like static. You didn’t feel welcome here, so why had it sent you? Further down the corridor, a red light pulses like an alarm that had been set off. Yet it remained airily quiet, luring you deeper. Tension swelled despite the stillness.

There was a sinking feeling in the Force as if you were plummeting into an open chasm, only you didn’t have the pumping blood or adrenaline in your ears. Instead, you were left with the unsettling prick of pins up your spine. Something lived deep within the hollow walls—something that was itching to get its claws on you.

You almost call his name. Maybe it was instinctual or maybe the feeling in the air knew something you didn’t. Either way, you found your legs moving against your will. You couldn’t help it. The red light at the end of the corridor held your gaze.

Your eyes strain and stare off into the distance. Within a blink, you were at the end, standing before a heavy metal door. It called you. It snuffed out your surroundings and it breathed you into the coldest room where even sound vaporized.

When you stepped through the door, it all connected.

Your dead body laid flat on an examination table in the middle of the morgue.

It wasn’t evil; it was scared. You were scared.

A wretched choke greedily swallows the frigid air, but your last breath left you long ago. With a chilling realization, you carefully turn around to face him. Anakin—Vader, sits behind you in the corner of the morgue, rocking his body back and forth and mumbling incoherent thoughts aloud. His cheeks are hollow and his eyes are sunken, carelessly letting a stream of tears dampen a dirty dark robe. He doesn’t appear to notice the twitch in your eye, much less your appearance.

"GET UP!" You seethe. You don’t have the strength to look at your deceased body anyway. "GET UP!" You wail, running over to him on the floor and beating your fists into the wall next to his head. "GET UP!" You don’t think you just scream and wail.

"I’M—I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY! I’M SO SORRY!" He cries back. It’s not enough for you. Not even his exhales visibly vaporizing in the air are enough. You died. YOU DIED. YOUR BODY WAS JUST LYING THERE AND ALL HE COULD DO WAS CRY? "I’M SORRY MASTER, I DIDN’T MEAN TO."

You freeze. Vader’s hyperventilating had stopped. Now, he is looking right between your eyes. For a fleeting minute you think he had noticed you until you heard the other voice. Because Vader wasn’t looking at you—no, he was looking through you at his master. Darth Sidious.

That persistent itch returns. It clicks then. You weren’t really here. No, you were witnessing it like an outsider. An outsider of your own body. A ghost haunting their own body; a ghost protecting their own body.

"You understand what you must do now?" Sidious beckons.

"…Don’t send me back," Vader hiccups.

You never find out where. The Force nudges you away just in time, beckoning you to bleed back into the corners of the room. You spend the last second glimpsing remorsefully at your body. It disturbs you greatly, like teeth growing under your skin. Why had the Force shown you this? What was it trying to tell you?

Somewhere deep down, you can’t misplace the feeling of this all being so wrong. You were given another chance to live, to see Anakin again, and this was how it always ended. Always the martyr, but never the savior. Was this your new life?

"I feel I’ve gone wrong somewhere." You whisper to no one but yourself.

The other souls weren’t good company. They were wiser than you and quieter than you.

How could it be that the Force had ascended you into this ghost torn between two worlds when you never got to accept your death?

Invisible hands link together around your neck. You blink. The touch grows steadier. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, feeling the Force whisk you away.

"Haunting my dreams too?"

At whiplash speed, Vader is standing in front of you with his hands wrapped around your neck. Sweat sticks a stray curl to his forehead. His chest rises and falls as if he had been overexerting himself. To your surprise, the corners of his lips are pulled into a faint smirk. But it doesn’t reach his eyes; only the reflection of your blue glow does. Your back stiffens. You stand there still as porcelain, afraid to crack under the pressure. Your thinly veiled anger is held together by a string.

The pressure on his fingers loosens one by one, sliding them across your shoulders and down your arms before falling to his sides.

His lie hangs in the air. That hadn’t been a dream.

Venom rips through your stomach and into your mouth. You feel sick.

"This needs to stop," is all you manage.

Vader runs his hands over his face, stopping to press the heels of them into his eyes. "I don’t know what to do," he hisses, sounding more human than Sith. You had seen him deflated on the shores of Mustafar, defeated on Tatooine, merciful on Lothal, and a prisoner on Coruscant. Something had changed since then. Despite all these ill-fated meetings, only one question continued to plague you.

 "What was it all for?" Your teeth grind.

Vader is taken aback, his bare feet stumbling back a step. "What?"

"All this pain, all this suffering. What is it that you want?" His time as a Jedi Knight was the happiest time of your life. When had it all gone so wrong?

"Power," he breathes, "power…" The scar across his eye throbs.

You take a step closer. "And when will it be enough?" Your voice is devoid of emotion. One more ounce of energy and you might just disappear forever.

His lips part as if to answer you, but nothing comes out.

-

Vader’s back slumps against the wall until it slides to the bottom. A panel in the wall catches on his robes. He muffles his cries of pain by biting into the bottom of his lip. At the top of the stairs looms his shadow: Darth Sidious. Only one has blood pooling beneath their body, and Vader had used up his luck a long time ago.

So much red. Lakes of it decorate the Imperial Palace, creating rivers of his sins down the stairs. From the red lightsaber clutched in Sidious’ hand to the spots in his vision. It caked beneath his nails too, from where he was hopelessly trying to ease his wound. Vader had lost his own lightsaber after tumbling backwards down the very stairs Sidious stood atop.

"You are foolish…" Sidious rasps, "perhaps not the Chosen One we all thought."

Vader had been foolish enough to try to kill his Master before the break of dawn because of a fever dream. And when will it be enough? Your words intoxicated his thoughts.

And when will it be enough? Vader recalled kicking away the thin bedsheets that had pooled at his feet sometime during the night. The question seared through to the bone, irritating the mechanisms of his metal arm. He spent hours lying awake like that, staring at the shadows, partly waiting for them to come and take him away.

His breath vaporized like the smoke forming in his head. In the haze of his frenzied state, he tried to recall your face, but that too slipped out of reach. Everything kept slipping, peeling away, and disappearing.

What was it all for?

Power.

A feverish shudder strikes.

Killing Darth Sidious would have been the end of it. If only he hadn’t given into his frenzied thoughts, he might have done just that. But no, Vader didn’t act on thought; he acted on feeling. His lust for power took him to the edge of the cliff each time.

Palpatine had seen him coming. Vader had only spent a few moments shrugging on a dark robe; he hadn’t even bothered with a shirt. And when Vader prowled only a few steps outside his bunker, a shining beam of red pierced his back through to his abdomen.

Which is how he ended up here, slumped against a wall, fighting to keep his eyes open. Another cough sets his lungs alight.

Darth Sidious’ breath washes over him as the man reaches out to trace the scar across his eye. "Pity."

Vader doesn’t have the strength to fight back, so he grits his teeth in response while heaving for air. His skin is growing paler by the second.

Ghosts linger in the hall.

Shmi, his mother, sits next to him. She soothes her hand down his shoulder. Vader sniffles. It had been so long since he had seen her. Although the sensation in his lips is fleeting, he opens it to say something, but she smiles and whisks away all the worries in the universe like mothers do. He realizes in that moment that she never saw him as Vader, only as Anakin Skywalker, the son who couldn’t save her. Yet she came and sat with him as blood continued to flood the floor of the old Jedi Temple. That must be love, he thinks.

On the other side, you wait there, careful not to make a noise. But he notices you. Feels you. His blue ghost, his guardian angel. You weave and entangle into him through the Force, saturating the pain away. You are like gravity, holding him there until it’s his time to ascend. His breath is shallow as he turns to you. He never meets your eyes, too ashamed of the man he will see in them.

And then, only then, on the brink of death, it all falls away.

He sees you. Void of your blue gleam and replaced with the radiant glow of your flesh—the skin and bone kind. With crimson blood pulsing your heart to life like hallowed memories breaking free from their cage and unraveling at his feet. Pieces fell back into place. The lingering weight of a palm between his, the brush of a smaller shoulder, and a smile pressed against his own. When he thought you were dead. We will be alright. Then words fall into place. Candles beneath the grate still burn. The wick dies. All alone. Grieving.

Vader’s flesh hand wraps around Palpatine’s neck in seconds. They both stare at each other, collectively gasping for breath. The darkness is suffocating sweet on Vader’s tongue. He draws on it like a man thirsty for water, sipping it out of Palpatine like it were his last meal. Before him, Palpatine’s face falls deathly ill, cheeks hollowing and eyes bulging. Vader tastes his life Force; it’s bitter and metallic.

More shields fall, gifting him even more special moments with you.

Sunshine on Hoth.

You blinked at it, removing your goggles. "I can see the sun."

Holding hands away from prying eyes. A smirk pulls at his lips. "Can you?" He asks, oblivious to the view, too focused on the snowflakes catching in your lashes.

He remembers how your thermal suit malfunctioned shortly after and the way he kept your hands warm on the journey back. He even remembers the time he sulked in your hiding place after he got his new mental arm and your patience to sit with him.

Memories jostle back to life, and Vader breathes them in like the soup you inhaled after your Jedi trials. They churn a fire in his belly and create a stream of ever-growing energy through his body.

And as he catches his breath, he feels a power so peculiar lacing itself into his veins. Behind his weary eyelids, a soft blue glow trails up his arm and around his flesh hand that was choking Palpatine. It occurs to him that he’s no longer alone. You are there with him, covering him with a blanket of blue.

And then it all clicks together. This deep, dark pain that fueled his every move was blind. It fed on his flesh and bones like a parasite. And it would only eat and eat and eat until he was no more. But you; you would feed and feed and feed him until he stood taller than the steepest mountains. There was no home here behind these fortified walls. Not when you lived in his very soul.

Your ghostly face reveals itself, passing through Vader’s like a ghost through a wall.

Yes, he thinks, this pain won’t last forever.

And so he lets his muscles relax and relish in the essence of you. Let the Force carry out its plan and use whatever scraps of Anakin Skywalker are left. Because he knew where he belonged now, where he always belonged. As Anakin, your Anakin.

Resigning into the wall, he waits for the darkness to swallow him whole. He isn’t afraid anymore.

Palpatine breath rasps against Anakin’s cheek. The blood gurgles at his wound, but he doesn’t feel the pain. He tries to blink away the spots in his vision, but he is blinded by a piercing light. Then he hears what can only be a thunk of a body collapsing to the floor. Between the ringing in his ears and his squinted vision, the light forms a narrow beam.

Your other hand had plunged a lightsaber right through Palpatine’s stomach.

Not any lightsaber—your old lightsaber.

Palpatine’s chest rises a final time with a choked gasp.

And when will it all be enough?

He knows the answer now.

They were all right. Love did lead to the dark side. His devotion to you left him a shell to be remade in the Emperor’s eyes. But love was not all evil, and it did not solely exist to tempt. It also had the power to save, the power to redeem, and the power to defy the odds. And that power is enough for him.

Neither of you move. Anakin thinks he might be dead already, given how much blood he must have lost. He doesn’t spend a moment longer because he notices how your hands are still trembling on the hilt, as if you couldn’t let go.

Your pupils are blown wide, and if he looked any closer, he might have been able to see your teeth chattering.

With a drunken smile, he cups your cheek to draw your attention to him. Wordlessly, you turn, your face still frozen in shock. His metal hand reaches to rest atop where your hands are gripped on the hilt. You drop the lightsaber, letting it pierce the silence with its echoing bang on the floor.

Inhaling through his nose, Anakin tries to clear his dry throat with a cough. "So, this is it, huh?" Although it comes out more slurred.

Your eyes flicker back and forth between his. "Anakin," you say his name as if it were a vase on the edge of a counter.

Your blue light flickers like a flame being fanned out.

His eyebrows furrow. "What? No, you can’t go." He wants to say so much more, but fatigue looms closer to him.

You glance down at the wound in his stomach before glancing back into his eyes in a poor attempt at hiding your panic.

In all odd sense of the idea, you never learned how to disappear. It wasn’t something you could control. Like many things in your life, it just happened on its own terms. You felt foolish that it had come down to this: Anakin lying in the spot where you died with Palpatine dead by your lightsaber. The irony was palpable.

But there were things you were wise enough to learn. Fore ghosts only existed as parities of the light side. And what you had just done was an act of pure darkness. No matter how pure your intentions may have been, killing was still killing.

Yes, you knew exactly what you were doing. You had to kill him. If Anakin had, Vader would have consumed him.

Your light flickers again.

…You would be the one to pay the price.

"Anakin," you repeat, resting a hand over his heart. You needed him to know. "I’ll always be right here."

"No! No…" His teeth grit out a hiss as he tries to sit up.

You know he can see the pain in your eyes, maybe even the wobble of your bottom lip. His wound is deep, and the blood terrifies you. But you feel him. You can feel his strangled breaths and his beating heart. It claps like thunder against his ribcage. He would live to see another day.

You are lulled by the rhythm of his heartbeat. You lean into his presence, touching your forehead to his with your eyes closed. Tears track down his cheek. You feel the scalding pain each time his chest is wracked by a sob.

"I just got you back… I can’t let you go now." His voice is coarse and wavers the same way his flesh hand trembles against your cheek.

Your eyes flutter open to a sea of blue. Waves crash at the shores of his eyes, creating rivers down his cheeks. You understood him. You didn’t have the strength to say goodbye, either. Especially after all this time you spent fighting for this. To have it brush against your fingertips only to be ripped away hurts.

It feels bitter to call this a happy ending, so you wouldn’t. This was a fresh beginning, a second chance for Anakin. Your time had run out long ago—Anakin's was only starting.

You admire his pools of blue one last time before allowing yourself to be swept beneath the waves and carried out to sea.

Anakin inhales sharply as you fade gently into the night. Your silhouette singes the air where it once was. His stomach still ached, but the bleeding had stopped.

Palpatine’s body lays motionless in a pool of blood on the marble floor.

Anakin swallows. It burns his throat.

Where to now? He thinks.

Home, a voice echoes in his head.

With a grunt, he stands, leaning his weight onto the wall.

He leaves the old Jedi Temple without saying a word.

He leaves Palpatine’s body to rot.

He leaves it all behind.

Except, of course, one thing.

Palpatine’s blood was printed onto the sole of his boot. He had stepped on it as he left.

No, Anakin doesn’t think he will ever forget the way it marked the marble behind each step.

-

A/N: THERE WILL BE AN EPILOGUE AND I PROMISE A HAPPY ENDING!!

[4seasonsofart]

To Know A Man

Lokis mischief has ended up with Thorfinn's fate being manipulated and him falling incredibly ill; Arnheid Village is on the edge of destruction. Einar is sent on a mission by the Norns to keep Thorfinn's fate in check. Will he be able to save his best friend, or will he fall prey to Thorfinn's nightmarish past? Inspired by: @wutheringmights

Part I: Old Friends, New Enemies Chapter I: What has been, is, and will come.

Word Count: 1.1k

Humanity has suffered much harsher fates than any of those given to God's. After all, a man does not know what he has until he has lost it. The select strings of fate that have been meticulously strung together over the cosmos have been tampered with due to Lokis inclination towards mischief. The Norns stand beneath Yggdrasil as its binding roots travel through all nine of the realms. They have called a human to their side for the first time in over a hundred thousand years.

The young brunette has had his fate tied in with the human known as Thorfinn since before they even came into being. He was created as a man, not meant to be a king nor a scholar, but a lover of life and a fighter for those whom he deeply cared for. He wasn't made for the bloodshed of battle but for the workings of the land. Every fiber of his muscled stature and sharp features was sown into his being by Skuld to allow him to do so. His sky blue eyes were plucked from the depths of the oceans, as that is where he would find his purpose and sail through his many adventures.

The three Norns watch as the mortal named Einar wakes up before them. His reaction is exactly what they knew would happen: one of great shock and awe. One of full reverence that causes him to bow before the great deities of fate before him. He has only known pain and strife these past few months, and this sign before him could either be something great or something destructive that was yet to come.

Before he could manage to utter a word, the fairest-appearing one stepped towards him. Her slim figure would have almost appeared malnourished if it weren't for how ethereal she was. Her figure is hugged by a white silk that is finer than even God's could manage to weave. Her ginger hair cascades down her back and gently rests around her hips as individual strands have small braids running down her back. Her sweet and innocent hazel irises still manage to give off an intimidating aura as she helps Einar up off of the sacred grasses.

"Welcome mortal; my name is Urd. I am the past, and I am in charge of what has already happened in all of the nine realms." She states in a tone warmer than any summer wind that Freyr could create.

The Norn in the middle steps forward and casts him a passive glance with her emerald green eyes as she scoffs. She has a much more commanding aura than the Norn to either her left or her right. Her hair barely runs past her shoulders as the brunette color clashes with the strands of white that fight for dominance. She has a full-rounded figure and could easily be mistaken for a queen of a mortal country. Her wrap gown is a living embodiment of her, as it is embroidered with living inscriptions of present happenings in all nine realms.

"You may address me as Verdandi. I am what is currently coming into being." Her voice is like Thor's booming thunder, and she looks extremely dissatisfied at having a human so close to the mighty tree Yggdrasil.

The last Norn takes not a step towards Einar but a step back. This Norn appears to be far older than the other two, if not for the hood that obscures most of her face and body. One would assume that she would look something akin to an old woman. Only greasy and thin strands of white hair and her eyes, darker than any night, can be seen through her cloak. A wrinkled hand worn by time places itself in the tree's center.

"I am Skuld. I am what shall be." She speaks through broken cracks in her voice as if she is a record that has been played through too many times.

Einar dares not speak as he awaits their next words with great anticipation and worry.

"Loki has dared to defy us, and now you shall be our pawn, which we shall use to restore balance to the nine realms." Verdandi speaks with a venom in her voice that is so potent that Einar could almost feel himself getting sick.

Urd shoots Verdandi a glare as she chooses to speak towards Einar with a more compassionate tone of voice. "Brave soul, we wish to enlist your help in restoring order to all of the world's I will be sending you into the past, where you have to look over your friend Thorfinn. You will be-"

Skuld coughs and takes over the conversation before Urd can continue any further. "Watch over him. We will guide you throughout this journey, Einar." All three share knowing glances before Skuld continues speaking. "This journey will be unlike anything you have ever faced. We know how your village has come to the brink of destruction and how your best friend is on his death bed. Will you accept this mission granted to you by the fates themselves?"

Einar's heart speaks before his mind does, as he proclaims that one word proudly.

"Yes."

Einar bows towards the Norns as a triumphant smirk graces his features. The adrenaline of what is to happen flows through his veins. His breaths are short and rapid, as he has to fight himself internally to keep calm in front of the most powerful beings in all realms. He won't fail Thorfinn nor the other villagers.

They all nod towards him in agreement. It wasn't as if he had much of a choice anyway. You don't tamper with fate and get away with it. Many have tried this and yet have failed, which has only caused them suffering and despair that is beyond a human's understanding. Loki will not get away with his crimes against the Norns, that's for sure.

Urd places her celestially soft hand on Einar's forehead. Verdandi crosses her arms over her chest as she mumbles something under her breath that could be made out to be "don't mess this up, mortal". Skuld keeps her wrinkled hand on Yggdrasil as those same haunting, bottomless black eyes cut jagged edges into his soul. His consciousness slowly slips from him. He sees everything and nothing in those moments, as the only thought in his mind is watching over this younger version of Thorfinn.

"Remember, he is not the same man you knew." Is the last words that the Norns have for him as he is sent back into the past of his closest friend.

[cunningmosswords]

#11 A Cat Named Bones  

Fallen Feathers and Broken Paws

“All for Death to strip, trip and shed away,

Take from night before it leads to the day”

Issue eleven follows themes of given title roles, Death’s hold- tired paws that wander far, finding where the broken fallen feathers fall. Can we change our handed roles, face the failures that may occur when changing what we know to what we could be after all? Far off dreams of the living kept closely to our souls, silent to our own… 

In the lapse of a quiet cold hour 

Where skies part with the start of stars

Birds know better to hide than squawk 

For Death walks in his night long strolls 

Jumping over aged crumbling walls 

From fences of forgotten garden homes

To pass the lines of dipping planted souls  

Where earth fields have begun to frost 

To melt into dew when morning knocks 

He steps only where Death has walked before

Where the last of pushed up daisies begin to fall

Shedding their petals like plucked feather wings 

And have learnt to sleep with buried dead things 

Wither with the unwanted forgotten headstones 

Blooming around Death touched frozen toes  

In chill blazed reds and crimson’s leave 

With a bed of ivy, oak and sumac leaves 

That stain a poison stinging sting 

They call to blanket what's left of Death’s taking 

Marking those with an ache of never pace  

Pulling, pinching at flesh that bleeds to marrow 

All for Death to strip, trip and shed away 

Take from night before it leads to the day 

Before they notice that this is ending lines 

Where frost's reach breaks veins to mine 

When guided pads would like to trade 

The dying for a reviving stake

Their remains are a trail of held birds 

That have danced their fluttered songs 

In all sorts of desperate panic bursts 

Folded locked talons in a blooming perch 

Before the press, before the air leaves 

With Death crying where he ought to be lying 

For it is all crept with braid, weeded string

Entangled where the living once breaths 

And where the dead have taken a final leave 

Hooked reminders of striving flights 

In broken scattered murder sites 

Where Death begs to feel the breeze

Of less taunting cold haunted seeps 

Tied to the grief of all passing seeds 

Bones, claws, and all guts gots 

Grass forever strained with its regrowing mark

When can one of the dark bring life?

-Crossing roads into street light 

x

Death's hands extended into the paws of black and white Cats, charcoal shades to greying strays who held posts where numb streets and forests meet. They were paw dealers, destructive thought stirrers and night watchers, stalking till dead nodded and whiskers shuddered- looping into moulds of would be kisses and set marked claws on doors for the last dark's visit. They took to handling sun falls’ orders whilst the Birds ringed up the sun's hello braces, to shine where Death was not wanted. A fight of who is to live and whose time has passed by, by high fly eyes and low fanged strives. They, the Birds, move in symphonies, all wings fluttering in their dances, staying out of the strolling hold of Death's ground reach- the ones that are plucking souls, cutting marks, taking from the ending threads of life's beating heart.

Not every hand follows every spoken order and muscle twitch, for a Cat named Bones, who had been the longest of Death’s left hand, tended to forget the doors that had to be clawed and instead of walking along he took to watching bodies as their souls moved on. Watched when Death visited and parted, watched as grief tumbled and turned, as bodies were taken, sheets were burnt and new leaves emerged. He’d even watch the Birds, as still as he could, with a longing eye- as they stood side by side on power lines, not so afraid of electric shocks or the passing winds that could pull them apart. They perched together, Birds of a feather, as storms of cold blood huddled them closer, and all closer together. Bones thought he’d like to travel across power lines, if he’d lie and tie a bit more of truth he’d hide how much he’d like the idea to fly in dances- in sunshine rim instead of shadow stalking in alleyway stalls, in quiet corners passing torches for when Death’s hand returns to body, head and mass at last. 

So Birds perched and perched in these overcrossing moments, sending silent cries to open windows, hoping people would shudder away from the passing Cats, not to stop to stroke and play with their deaths. It’s not that Bones parted clowder of Hands’ took needlessly, they took from the ill, they took from the broken, they took from those who hardly had any life left in them. They marked and let Death question the much more living than embracing well known and sudden seen endings. Bones didn’t like it much, following guided palms when he himself felt dragged and drawn to huddled Birds, drew and watched in the slithers of dark when their perch then turned to a dance of song in light's warmth.

But that night, between darkened rooms with nightlights, window ledges shedding ageless tints, people shaking from sleepless strife and children crying from nightmare fright. Bones walked, carrying on with some of his titled jobs, debating for Death on who should be marked or not- 

When the Little Bird hit the window glass and fell to the ground below, below and below with a SNAP.

Bones stopped. It had been a long time since a Bird had flown so close, he'd forgotten the feathers marks, the smell of fluff and the tweeting sound that fell apart. 

So Bones paused and Bones jumped, down to the ground he followed, landing with a soft soundless sound, a tingle of bell-like halted note. Bones' paws picked up feathers and his eyes got wider and sadder, taking small gentle movements to the mess that cried loud like the nightmare fared children. Blood dipped, dripped and tripped into nature's turning shades, decay of reds in frozen grasslands, where abandoned memories lay melting into scape. She was screaming, aching, engraving, it was night dark and she was cold soil with no other to hear her foil- stuck with just Bones to listen, Bones to question- Bones who wants to hide this happening, lend himself to landscape and never see this passing. 

Death somewhere nodded, whiskers shuddered, this Little Bird was dying, and there was no light of living to reach this shaded fallen place. The Bird would cross over in this fold- injured, broken without her kind to huddle her close, to heal her broken bones. His tail curled, his ears flat, this was a dangerous thing, a dangerous thought. Was he to mark her soul for Death’s collecting or let it float, here, grounded away from the sky she searches for. It, looking down at her falling grace, her calling up asking for its embrace. Her body would slowly frost and she'd be broken lines with a Cat whose paws only knew Death and nothing about reviving light. Maybe he should free her, cut the suffering short, what is left of a grounded Bird, begging the sun to rise and carry her home. 

She wouldn't reach light, she wouldn't pass the night, she'd die, die there, die in minutes, die in spoiled surroundings, daisies blooming, caged in earth's making- and the sun will be too far from waking, too far to mend the broken tendering. There was a crack in Bones’ bones, a crack opening up wide, a crack knowing the look of someone wanting to live past the night. Part of him knew his hands only marked and took- but still he walked closer, bent down cautiously, a reflection of Death engulfing her sight of the sleeping sky. She was tiny, a Bird in hand, fidgeting, twitching, begging to stand. He was Bones, tired, deprived of both breath and a place flocking onto power lines. 

So instead of a mark to cut, he cut to mend, not breaking muscle threads, but braiding them with new ends. Bloody, messy, screeching madness, he cut and remarked her with a chance of seeing the day and waving the night away. It felt like a lifetime- it felt like just a moment, but Death's left hand sprouted a chance, pushing away daisies and crimson blanket leaves, pushing away Death's motifs and offerings. Somewhere within the unknown of Bones’ past, Bones’ last and Bones’ wishful thought, Little Bird's cries turned into a hopeful song. They broke the forked path and made a wish out of halved held bones in each claw and talon hold .

He turned away when it was -ment in betterment. He didn't absorb the creative change his Death marking had brought, he pretended this fate of events didn't happen at all. Just faced his back to Little Bird, listened to her sing, flap her wings and fly off into the sky in the start of morning bright. He didn't need a thank you, didn't need to check if her flight was not the last, he could not deal with the hope and the crushing of a failing chance. Bones just stalked off at the ending of night, listening to Birds breaking away from power lines.

© 2023 Cunning Moss Words - Written by Anayis N. Der Hakopian

[imaginepirates]

Pirate

For the anon who wanted a James x reader where they meet on the Pearl, but James doesn’t have the guts to admit that he’s falling for them. Later, (we’re pretending his death didn’t happen), they meet again at Shipwreck Cove, and James confesses his feelings during the battle on the Dutchman.

@emdrabbles​ @tesserphantom​ @paljonkaikenlaista​ @viper-official​  @hellspawn-brownies​ @groovyfluxie​ @wordsinwinters​

~3760 words. Long again. 

~~~~~~~

           His hair hung in wet strings around his face. Whether they were matted together with water, alcohol, or vomit, you weren’t sure you wanted to know, though you suspected it to be a mixture of all three. A guard rail was all that kept him upright. He was a disaster, even for a pirate. Not that he’s a pirate, either.

          The former Commodore looked a wreck. You would be, too, you supposed, if you’d drunk yourself into complete oblivion. And someone needs to take away that damned wig. Currently, it sat on his head much like some bird’s nest, and you half-expected a gull to land in it at any moment. Pity mingled with your disgust. There had been a time when his name alone had struck fear into you. Now, he was a pathetic image, unable to do so much as hold himself up on two feet. He couldn’t strike fear into a fly.

          You were a bit surprised that Elizabeth, of all people, showed him no sympathy. Even Jack looked a bit repulsed, which was saying something, given that Jack himself was never in a prime state. He staggered upright, puking over the side of a railing.

          You sighed, walking brisky over, snatching the wig off the top of his head and tossing it overboard. He looked up at you through bleary eyes.

          “What the bloody hell was that for?”

          “You look awful.”

          “Thank you for your astute assessment.” Even drunk, his tone dripped sarcasm, and you were a little surprised.

          He’s still in his wits, then. You looked him over again. Somewhat. “You look marginally less awful without the wig.” He grunted. You grabbed the bottle he was holding, too, and threw it over the side.

          “Now that’s just a waste.”

          “You need to sober up.”

          “And who exactly are you, that it’s your job to police me?”

          “You’re embarrassing, is all, and it’s no good to be embarrassed by crewmates.”

          He snorted. “You should write to the admiralty. That sort of thinking would have spared me many of my own crewmates throughout the years.” He stared down into the waves, where his water-clogged wig had begun to sink under the surface.

          “Well, you don’t want to be that person, do you?”

          “At this point, I don’t particularly care.” His wig finally lost the battle, disappearing into the murky depths.

          “Have some pride.”

          “Pride?” He pushed himself up, looking coldly into your eyes with his own. “I’ve lost my title, I’ve lost my station, I’ve lost my livelihood. I have no house, nor family, nor friends. I’ve lost everything I ever held dear, including the woman I love, because despite being with her,” here he gestured with his chin to where Elizabeth stood at the helm, “I’m further from her than ever before. Now please, tell me again why I should have pride.”

          If you were being honest with yourself, it was hard to give him an answer. “You still have your life, and for however little that’s worth right now, things could be worse. You could be dead. Take pride in the fact that you didn’t let things get that far.” He scoffed, but you continued. “Go clean yourself up; splash some water on your face, and do something about the vomit in your hair. Things can get better. Clean up, and you’ll be one step closer.”

          He looked at you then, a vulnerability in his eye that wasn’t there before. Hope. He stalked off then, stumbling a bit, but trying admirably to, supposedly, follow your advice.

          Norrington carried out his tasks admirably and without complaint, no manner how demeaning for a man of his previous station. He was watched with suspicious eye; but why wouldn’t he be? He had been a ranking officer, after all, and an effective one at that. Too many pirates had been lost to his scouring of the Caribbean. Just how far can you trust a member of the navy, former or otherwise?

          The way he looked at Jack’s compass didn’t escape your notice. He knows. “Not thinking of stealing it, are you?” His neck craned to look up at you from his position kneeling on the deck, a wet cloth in hand. He stopped his scrubbing to glare.

          “I’m not a thief.” He looked back down, returning to his task.

          “You are a pirate.”

          His head whipped up at that, jaw working in annoyance. “I’m not a bloody pirate,” he hissed.

          “Then what the hell are you doing here? Top secret mission? I’m surprised you were chosen; I wouldn’t believe your fall from grace if I weren’t here to see it myself.”

          Norrington was showing clear restraint, obviously wanting to hit you with something. You watched him breifly consider using the wash-rag as a projectile before deciding against it.

          “Commodore Norrington. That was a name to fear, once.”

          The ferocity in his eyes vanished, replaced by sadness, his gaze dropping from yours. “I haven’t been that man in months. I never will be again.”

          “Good.” He shot you a questioning look. “It’s no use to be afraid of you. And, if what I hear from Elizabeth is true, you might learn to have some fun and not be so stiff all the time.” Offence flashes across his face, but you only smiled. “I blame high society. Welcome to freedom, James Norrington. I hope you get a taste for it.”

          He turned to look out over the steadily changing horizon, a soft pink beginning to dust the sky. “So do I.”

          The days wore on, and the crew steadily adjusted to James’ presence. He no longer ate alone, though he ate in silence, and the crew was more willing to interact with him. Elizabeth, you noted, had barely paid him any mind since his arrival. How she could be so callous towards him you didn’t know; you had expected her to at least talk to him, but she barely even looked his way.

          Not that he didn’t look hers. His gaze would fall upon her, sometimes, while he worked, and there was a sadness there that tugged at your heart. He was confused, too, as to her treatment of him. He wanted, more than anything, to be close to her. Even if she could treat him like a friend. But she refused to give him even that much.

          You were tired of watching it. “Come on,” you walked up to him, “let’s do something about that hair.”

          “You haven’t grown tired of telling me what to do, have you?” he drawled. He was propped against a railing, eyes following Elizabeth as she walked across the deck above them. With Jack, you noted. So, it seemed, did James.

          You sighed. “It can only get in the way, hanging down by your face like that.” You turned away, heading down belowdecks. He needs to get away from watching her.

          James followed, pushing off the railing and heading after you. Good. You found a spot with a few barrels—full of apples, you assumed; you never had gotten rid of all of Barbossa’s cargo—that would be suitable for sitting on. You motioned for James to do just that, moving behind him.

          You found yourself at a loss for words. What was there to say? You had little in common, and less that wouldn’t bring back poor memories for him. You kept silent, instead running your fingers through James’ hair. It’s longer than I expected, for a naval man. I wonder if he always kept it like this, or if it was close-cropped, once.

          “What exactly are you doing?” He turned his head a little to look back at you.

          “Braiding.” You separated his hair into three parts, beginning to twine the strands together.

          You expected him to ask you why, or to move away, but he stayed put. “I haven’t worn my hair in a braid since the navy.” It was almost a whisper. Somehow, in the low light of the hull, it seemed appropriate.

          You almost pulled away and apologized, but he went on. “I used to braid it to fit it under that damned wig. It could get so insufferably hot in the sun, though I was always glad to have the hair off the back of my neck. I don’t know how Elizabeth ever managed, in those dresses.” A soft smile sat on his face. “How did any of us manage, back then?”

          You knew he wasn’t speaking of the heat. You tied his hair off with a small strip of ribbon from around your wrist. It was interesting, to see something of yours on him, and you stared at it a moment before moving. “You’ve always kept your hair this long, then?” You moved to a barrel across from him.

          “For years. My mother hated it.” He smiled. “She told me it would be easier if I just cut it off.”

          “Good thing you didn’t.” He looked at you curiously, and you felt yourself beginning to flush. “It suits you.”

          His eyebrows raised in surprise. Even in the dim light of the lanterns, you could see his cheeks turn pink, the color extending down into his collar. You sat in awkward silence a moment, James fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves while you looked down at the black deck. “A name to fear, you said.”

          James was still toying with the cuff on his left wrist when you looked back up. “I think I like you this way better.”

          “I’m not sure I do.”

          You got up, moving to a barrel next to his. “I’d rather not fear you.” You grabbed his hand, taking it gently away from its fiddling. He scanned your eyes. “Like most people, you aren’t as terrifying as the stories make you sound.”

          “I never thought of it that way.”

          “That you struck fear, even into the best of us?”

          “I…” he trailed off. “It seems so ridiculous, that anyone feared me. I know I was good at my job—it was all I was good for.” He scoffed. “But I was so out of place in society…I always felt horribly awkward at all those social events. I was much more afraid of those people than they were of me.”

          “You were like…” you wracked your brain for a parallel. “You were told stories about Blackbeard when you were a child, right?”

          “Yes, of course. Upon reflection, I’m sure they were too dramatic to be true.”

          “That’s how you were to us. You were a reverse Blackbeard.” James laughed aloud at that. “I can’t even tell you how I pictured you. Larger, maybe. Older. And with a horrible, mean beard that took up half your face.”

          James smiled, and you found you quite liked the expression on him. “Am I as scary as the stories?”

          “Not even close. Though I’m sure I wouldn’t want to meet the business end of your sword,” you added.

          “Is Blackbeard as frightening as the tales?” James questioned. Then, more seriously, “Is Davy Jones?”

          You sobered. “Aye, he is.” You found that his hand was still in yours—he hadn’t pulled away. “But it’s mixed with disgust. He isn’t human, anymore. It can be revulting. And sad,” you said, upon reflection. “I can’t imagine; losing your humanity like that.”

          James said nothing, his eyes on your entertwined fingers. He ran his thumb over your knuckles. “Why do you talk to me?”

          You shrugged. “There’s no reason not to.”

          “That doesn’t seem to be the common belief.” He continued to rub gentle circles in the top of your hand. His fingers were calloused from years of hard work, but so were yours. He traced over your knuckles and each finger in turn. His brows furrowed. “It’s pity, isn’t it?”

          You could see how disgusted he was with himself. “Some, yes,” you admitted. “But you’re not half-bad to be around. This was…nice. I haven’t had a quiet moment with someone in ages.”

          He looked at you thoughtfully, using his free hand to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re not half-bad either, for a pirate.”

          You smiled, and he looked like he might say something more, but he stayed quiet, a soft smile of his own gracing his features. When he left, you knew he was in a better mood than when he came. I wonder if I’ll occupy any of the space in his thoughts that Elizabeth does. It was a silly thought, and you didn’t quite know why it came to mind, but there was a ghostly touch where James had brushed your hair aside, and you realized that you liked the idea of his thinking about you. Wishing for the attention of a naval man. Who would’ve thought?

~~~~~~~

          The news about Isla de Muerta came hard. You had been anxious the entire time, confined to the Pearl on the account that Davy Jones could make an appearance, and the ship would need to be crewed if he did.

          You weren’t prepared for the eventuality that James wouldn’t come back. You had worried, of course, wringing your hands with it, but you hadn’t actually thought…

          You kept your tears for him to yourself. Nobody else was bothered—not even Elizabeth. A man she’s known her entire life, dead, and she has no sorrow to show for it. How can she be so heartless? It was as if nothing had happened at all. The crew ignored it; they were used to that, you supposed. Half your number had been killed by cannibles, after all. But even Gibbs seemed unbothered by the prospect of James’ death.

          Only later did you realize that James had taken the heart. You didn’t believe it, at first, but slowly came to reconcile yourself with the idea. Elizabeth thought him a traitor. But was he ever really on our side? You thought back to your conversations with him. I like you this way better. It had been true. I’m not sure I do. That was true, too, and now he’d shown it.

          At first, none of it mattered to you. He was dead, anyway. Slowly, you began to realize that Jones didn’t have the heart. After all, he hadn’t quit pursuing the Pearl, even if you didn’t have the heart. When you learned that the heart was in possession of Cutler Beckett, damn his eyes, your heart leapt with joy. James is alive! No matter the mood of Jack, or Gibbs, or Elizabeth, or the crew, you could only think of James. He wasn’t killed, then. He used the heart as leverage to secure his old position.

          You pondered the thought. If ever you met him again, would you be afraid? Or would you just be sad?

~~~~~~~

          Shipwreck Cove was just as you’d remembered it. Dimly lit, ships stacked one on the other, whispered conspiracies in every corner. Every sailor’s legend had its place in these ships. There wasn’t a legend that hadn’t been speculated within the fortress, and not a pirate who hadn’t chased them without.

          You had fond memories of the Cove, but less fond memories of the Court. The Brethren Court convened on only the deepest of issues, and you still remembered some of their gatherings from when you were a child. It was loud, and there was no order, and the Court couldn’t meet without at least one death per session.

          It was that way now. Jack toyed with the swords stuck in the globe at the front of the room while the other pirate lords surrendered the miscellaneous junk they deemed their pieces of eight. The end result was a dish full of random trinkets. Not that you didn’t understand; the idea that pirates obtained mass amounts of wealth was a myth. Most of the time, you barely had a shilling to your name. Working with Jack was especially non-lucrative, but it was certainly more entertaining.

          Jack’s hand strayed briefly to the piece of eight at his temple. “Might I point out that we are still short one pirate lord and I’m as content as a cucumber to wait until Sao Feng joins us.”

          “Sao Feng is dead.”

          You recognized that voice. You whipped around to see Elizabeth, clad in full Chinese armor, sword in hand. You smiled to yourself; she was always full of surprises.

          The best surprise, however, was the man standing at her side. You mouthed James’ name, and his eyes locked on yours. He stepped forward, as if to greet you, but you were interrupted by further discussion of the Court. He’s alive, and he’s here, and I never thought I would see him again. You glanced over your shoulder. And he’s in full uniform.

          The Court was chaos. Barbossa’s plan to free Calypso was not taken well by the others, and you couldn’t blame them. Your mind was preoccupied, focussing on the man somewhere behind you. You wondered if he had seen the relief in your eyes. Had he felt the same?

          A hand settled on your shoulder. You turned to see James, worried eyes staring into your own. He pulled you back, leading you out of the room.

          “James?” You felt your eyes beginning to water. “For the longest time, I thought you had died.” Your voice cracked, and you were unable to stop it.

          He opened his mouth as if to say something, but only reached out to you, pulling you into a firm embrace. “I’m so sorry.” His breath tickled your ear. “I’ve done horrible things.”

          You held tightly to the back of his coat. “I’m just happy to see you again.”

          He stepped back, pain blossoming across his features. “I know you can never forgive me, for what I’ve done. I can only hope you-”

          The doors behind you opened, and the Court flooded out. The consensus is war, then.

~~~~~~~

          The rain made it hard for you to keep a good grip on your sword. The Dutchman pitched and rolled under your feet, waves crashing rougly into the sides of the hull. Its mast, tangled with the Pearl’s, loomed above you, a towering dark figure in the haze of the monsoon.

          These damned fish people. The Dutchman’s crew fought more viscously than even Barbossa’s undead pirates. Who knew starfish could be so angry? You feared that their weapons, often tarnished and jagged, would catch on your own and leave you defenseless. I should’ve stayed on the Pearl. But there are fish people there now, too.

          At least you weren’t alone. Elizabeth and Will were with you, as was Jack, though he seemed to be having difficulties of his own. If you hadn’t been fighting for your life, you might have been more amused. You had lost sight of most of your crew mates. You were too focused on the eel-headed freak in front of you to give your fellows much thought. With your swords locked, you had no other way to grapple with the beast. It hadn’t occurred to you that the eel could elongate its neck, which was exactly what it did, arching forward to bite at your face.

          A moment later, the head lay at your feet, the slimy body collapsing beside it. James was there, sword in hand, looking at you with concern. That, or he’s squinting to keep the rain out of his eyes. You gave him a nod, stepping in closer.

          “There are too many of them. We’ll never get to them all. Some of them are coming right out of the walls!” You both looked around yourselves at the endless numbers in the Dutchman’s crew.

          “We only have to kill one.” James gestured towards the other end of the ship, where Davy Jones stood, lobster claw digging into the wood of the deck.

          “We don’t have the heart.”

          “But we both know who does.” James’ face was grim. “I should’ve stabbed it while I had the chance.”

          You grabbed his arm. “No. You would be just like Jones, then, bound to this ship for eternity. You’d have no humanity left.”

          “I’d be better than I am now.”

          The comment broke your heart, but there were too many enemies around for you to focus on it. You slashed at a shark-headed monstrosity before James pulled you in close, stabbing something just behind you. Now isn’t the time for blushing. But James was holding you tightly to his chest, and you heard him shoot another member of Jones’ crew.

          You hated to let go, but you had to duck under James’ arm to go after another, and another. Your back ended up pressed against James’, and you could feel each others’ heavy breathing.

          “I don’t think we’re going to make it out of this alive.” You had to shout to be heard over the thunderous racket. Between the rain, the gunfire, and the sharp clanging of swords, there was little room for words.

          “It doesn’t seem likely.”

          “You were trying to tell me something earlier.” Rain ran down your face in streams. “Now might be your only chance.”

          James put a hand on your shoulder, turning you around to face him. “I wanted to apologize, for it all. I hope you’ll accept it.”

          “Of course.” You grabbed the pistol from his side, leveling it at a creature behind his shoulder.

          “You didn’t deserve what I did.”

          You cupped his face with a hand. “I understand why you did it.”

          “You were the only one who treated me like a person, then, on the Pearl.” He had grabbed your arm, keeping you close. It occurred to you that you were both going to die like this, paying too much attention to each other and not enough to your surroundings. “I can’t…” James took a steadying breath. “I can’t help but love you for it.”

          You barely had time to process the words before his lips were on yours. Despite the storm, and the gunfire, and the clanging of swords—despite the knowledge that neither of you were going to make it out alive—the kiss was achingly tender, with so much softness and vulnerability that tears began to slip down your already soaked cheeks.

          This won’t be such a bad way to go.

          There was a sudden shuddering of the ship, and you and James had to cling to each other to keep upright. You looked up, only to find that the Pearl had broken away, her masts now untangled from the Dutchman’s.

          You tugged at James’ arm. “We have to go. I think the ship’s going under.”

          He nodded, and you found a loose line to swing over to the Pearl. The Dutchman sank not long after you hit the deck. The ship fell beneath the waves, sucked under by the storm.

          “We still have to face Beckett.” James looked out over the water to where the British armada was advancing.

          You could already feel some of the fight leaving you. How could you withstand an armada, when you’d barely defeated the Dutchman? “At least we have each other, now.”

          James looked down at you. “Yes.” He cautiously wrapped an arm around your waist. “And after? If there is an after.”

          You smiled teasingly. “I hope you don’t mind returning to piracy.”

          James smiled back. “I don’t think I’ll mind at all.”

[midnightmoonkiss]

Y A A A AS Y A A A A A AS Y A A A A A S. WE NEED PIRATE MIDORIYA IZUKU

YES WE DO

PIRATE IZUKU IS SO FUCKING!!!! MANLY

The captain of the Sleeping Dove..! Notorious for using his brain to get out of deadly situations!

Like all pirates, he is a bit of a drinker, but if he ever gets drunk off the rum they keep in barrels under the deck, he’s just super affectionate! Rip to his crew mates.

He’s also sooo muscular.. he needs to be one could argue!

His freckled, sun kissed skin littered in scars from sword fights over treasure or dumb rivalry.. his hands strong and his palms rough from handling rope constantly!

He knows the sea like the back of his hand, and he can easily avoid any royal navy ships that hunt down pirates.

Hell, he’s sank a shit ton of them.

While Pirate Deku is still Deku, the kind and sweet boy we all know and love, he is a pirate.

And pirates can be vicious and cruel.

(It’s kinda hot)

He’s tame compared to others, but he’s still slaughtered people in the name of defense.

He’s also had quite a few strangers ride his ship for one night, or rented a room just to leave before the morning sun.

Pirates are quite horny people,,, being at sea for so long, fighting the waves, other pirates, and eachother can really make you long for some affection.

If you can manage to make him fall for you, he’ll be as loyal as a dog - completely yours.

Even the worse of men can be turned good with a little help.

If you decide to braid parts of his hair, he keeps those braids in until he sees you again.

Pirates arent known for bathing much.. ahah..

If anything, he smells like salt water and wood more than filth.

He enjoys swimming in the sea, so he is a bit.. cleaner than others. As clean as a pirate can be.

If you ever decide to go aboard his ship, he’s going to be thrilled.

He doesnt expect you to sail with him, but the interest you show is enough for him.

Its a tough relationship, but he can make it work.

He’s THE Captain Midoriya, after all.

I imagine him to wear a long sleeved white cotton long-sleeved shirt (classic pirate shirt) with a v-neck held together by string that shows off his chest a bit.. he sometimes wears a green vest with golden embroidery.

His pants are black, and his brown boots are kneehigh with a black buckle.

He wears a brown belt, never a fan of those huge ones most pirates wear, to hold his sword, as well as a leather strapped bag to hold his belongings if off on an adventure on land.

He’s sorta like Jack Sparrow, just more tame.

His hair is longer, sometimes tied back into a low pony tail with a few strings of hair falling around his face.

His ears are pierced to show off the jewelry he’s stolen.

He’s dirty, disgusting, and a drunkard, yet he’s hot as sin and can and will mix up your guts with a hearty chuckle.

[monsoonblooms12]

What Ethan & Pooja AU is this? #OpenHeartAU

Selcouth (Ethan x f!MC)

Summary: Set in Book 2, Pooja gets the recognition she deserves for solving Naveen Banerji's case.

Selcouth: Unfamiliar, rare, strange and yet, marvelous🤎

A/N: Thank you so much @beastlyinstrument for the visual prompt❤ I had fun thinking up and writing this piece.

A/N 2: The flashback portions are indented

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey X f!MC (Pooja Sharma)

Word Count: around 3.2K (I am sorry!)

Rating: General

Category: A bit angst, A bit fluff

Warnings: 1 Curse Word (again 😆)

Prompts: Late Submission for @choicesmonthlychallenge July challenge day 4: celebration

There was stark silence surrounding him as he scribbled out points from the morning meeting of the Diagnostics Team along with some of his own observations from the patient charts. The days have been nothing out of the blue since his return from the Cholera-ridden district of Amazons.

The steam from the warm coffee filled the entire office with its sweet aroma. With winters in their full force, there was a mystic chill all around the city and the warmth the coffee gave was extremely welcomed.

It took him 30 minutes to the tee to complete his morning paperwork. And as he arranged the white sheets in a clean stack, a slow groan escapes him. He had been so engrossed in work, that he had completely missed the fact that he had emptied his coffee cup.

Ethan looks up from his desk to the windows giving an enchanting view of the brumal grounds. Snowflakes, basking in the distant sun's glory, shining like iridescent jewels, fell slowly, silently to meet their origin.

It's too serene of a day to waste indoors.

The thought caught him somewhat by surprise, even if it was his encephalon producing it.

He had spent long years of his life away from focusing on diminutive happenings like the weather or the warmth of his favourite Vienna on a frosty day.

To appreciate the beauty of falling of the snowflakes today, was a slightly unusual change. He couldn't help but wonder as to what would have caused it.

He didn't need to wait long for an answer. Like a response to his unuttered query, the notification bell of his phone brought him out of his reverie and displayed her name with the joy of a student who had solved a difficult problem with ease on the first try. It was nothing out of the ordinary, just an email of her completed reports.

And yet, he was unable to control the breakout of butterflies in his stomach.

The feeling was orphic, and yet irenic.

As his heels tapped on the white floors, supposedly conducting an intriguing conversation with them, a faint intermix of voices reached him and stopped him in his tracks.

"You're wearing all black." It wasn't a question, but a fact that Alexandra's voice enunciated.

"Are you surprised?" A concordant voice questioned. Even if he didn't acknowledge it, it was one of his favourite euphonies.

"No. Impressed."

"I lost a bet to Bryce, and this is what I get in return." There is a pause. "It's a nice change though."

He can feel the smile that emerges out on her face at the end and feels his lips curl up, like a magnetic connection. He was caught off guard as he stood there thinking of the sweet nothings and sweet everythings of his reminiscences with her.

"Good Morning Dr Ramsey!"

It took him all his power to straighten himself, and to put on the stoic façade before responding,

"Good Morning Dr Walton."

Alexandra didn't initiate a conversation, just like he had expected. Bidding goodbye to her companion, she strode off her way.

Now, it was just him and her, standing in the middle of nowhere, eyes locked in intense focus, tied together with a string they find themselves unable to break.

She looked striking like she always did.

In every hue, every ensemble, at every hour, she knew how to induce that unnamed feeling in his heart.

All she had to do was to look at him the way she did, and his idiotic heart would skip a beat, and an ambrosial emotion would follow.

And what does one do when emotions go out of control?

Self Preservation.

Giving her a brisk nod, he dropped his gaze, hurrying away past her, not having the courage to look at the hurt caused.

Idiotic.

That's the only word he could use to describe his actions.

He could think of a trillion excuses, travel through a hundred bends on the roads of justification, but nothing would be enough to balance out the pain he was giving her. Not even his playlist of curses that he played in his mind every day to remind himself what he truly was.

An asshole.

As soon as his steps took him to the outdoors, the crisp cold winds blew through his hair, and he cherished the moment.

The apricity hugged him, and the scene that met his eyes, the world draped with a veil of phosphorescing snow, generated a euphoria he was unfamiliar with. As a minuscule flakelet fell on his outstretched hand, he realized that no one needs to spend a billion dollars to get happiness.

It is hidden amidst mundane things, and the only thing one has to do is to keep foraging for it.

Happiness can be made, it can be found. But can it be bought?

Never.

------------------

It was unusually calm at Derry's in the morning hours.

Not that he was complaining, of course.

In comfortable, long sips, he lets the caffeine overtake the tiredness and the heartache coursing through his body. The glare of the screen and ping of his cellular broke the aura of comfort that had spread out through the coffee shop. He wants to shut it off and throw it in a corner away from his sight, but decides against it.

It's a text from Naveen.

Skipping is not an option for today night!

A groan escapes him, the annoyance of another meet and greet taking away all the calm. He tried to convince him, but all efforts went futile. He plays the discussion all over again to find any loophole he can to escape the torture.

Flashback:

It's after hours and the wing of the hospital where Naveen's office was situated bore a silence. The amicable old man sat in his chair, leaning back as the younger one stood, with his back at him. It was obvious they had been arguing, but it seemed more like amusement for the old mentor and annoyance for the young protégé.

"There is no need-"

"Ethan, you have been repeating the same words for fifteen minutes now." Naveen chuckles.

"I very well know that there is no need for anything, dear friend. I just want a little bit of happiness and merriment in the hard times."

"I am not stopping you from doing that, Naveen, you know that. But what is the need of the celebration being about me?"

"Because you are a reason I am alive today." The man gives a melancholy smile, vision blurred as the near-death experience of the past year come sailing in front of him.

"This celebration is about you and Dr Sharma. Without the two of you, I would not have been here."

Ethan's features are clouded by the pain of losing his mentor, who has been like a father to him, and inspiration. His frown softens, annoyance long lost, as he comes as takes a seat and places his hand on his.

"Fine. I will do this. But only for you, okay?"

Naveen's lips curl up in a grateful, happy smile as if wordlessly conveying his thanks. As Ethan stands up and proceeds to leave, he cannot stop himself from laying out his observation,

"For her too."

And Ethan knew. He knew exactly whom this was about. And as much as he wanted to deny the assumption, he couldn't help but accept the truth in it. Of course, he was doing it for Naveen. But he was doing it for her too. She deserved it so much more than him. If she hadn't been there, the seat occupied by his mentor today would have been...

Flashback ends

As his eyes skim through the crisp pages of the medical journal absent-mindedly, he thinks of her again. The permanent occupant of his daydreams, who would still manage to come back, no matter how many resets he carried out.

He thinks of her attire from the hour before, hair in a neat long braid, dressed in a meticulously embroidered Indian attire. And then of the celebration at dusk, where she will finally receive the recognition she deserves.

All the doubts regarding her promotion to the Diagnostics Team would be washed away.

He remembers what she had told him a few days after he had heard those nasty rumours,

"I have proved myself and I know what's true. I don't need to show anyone else the testament of my abilities. As long as I am fair and just, their words can do no harm to me."

His admiration for her had increased phenomenally when she spoke those words to him.

His pride, his faith had not been misplaced when he picked her for the difficult voyage named Edenbrook.

He has never felt so proud of any other intern as much as he does of her.

His heart sings to him, his choice was correct. He doesn't let it elaborate itself, because one wrong move from his side would be more than enough to ruin this unpolished gem before she even gets a chance to shine.

Yes, he did tell her that some things are worth any risk, she is worth any risk, back in Miami. The reminiscences of the day still played on the screen of his mind in sepia, they lulled him to sleep.

But the risk to harm her fragile career before it even blossoms?

It wasn't just a risk, it was like a crime for him.

One which he refused to commit.

---------------------

As dusk falls and winter blues colour the land of snow in multichromatic hues, hiding any bit of orange from the setting sun, Pooja Sharma hums along with her favourite songs as she dresses up for the special evening.

No matter how much she wants to curl up in the folds of the soft Cashmere, she has to be in attendance. It's a strict order from her grand mentor and impossible for her to go past.

It's all black day, she reminds herself when picking the outfit. And she doesn't forget to leave a thank you note for Lekh as she finds the perfect one.

And now, as she stands, trying to complete the arduous job of creating a perfect eyeliner wing, a certain someone's reminiscences trouble her pained heart.

No matter how much she scolds it for its stupidity, trying to explain the futility of the hope of getting together, it never heeds, just continues to trouble her with the baritone of his that enchants her mind, the cologne that overpowers all her senses.

As she looks at the reflection in the speculum, she cannot help but imagine his reaction.

Will she even get a reaction?

Maybe just a nod, or a look.

No words.

She has convinced herself with it. It took some time, some stops, some pulls of an invisible harness, but she has convinced herself.

She's stopped hoping, soothing herself with whatever they shared, memories that felt like they belong to a bygone era, and a promise of treasuring them, just in case he ever decided to come back.

---------------------

In the vespertine hours, the diamond dust made the sun devoid city look like a fairytale. Any other time, he would have just worried about the sharp chill, probably cursing the snow.

Being so observant of the places he is a regular visitor at, it was a new experience for him.

Strange, even.

It's something that will take some time to get used to.

The interiors are warm. Minimally decorated, as he had requested. Not wanting to create a fuss, he bee-lines to the corner of the room, where the only occupant was emptiness. He decided to cherish the moments of solace before the bother of the vivacious crowd began, wanting to start a colloquy.

On instinct, he looks around, not being able to comprehend the reason why his heart leaps to his throat. And then a pang of disappointment overlaps that sudden nervousness.

The absence of one person, the feeling so profound.

It's magical.

Dangerous, but still, magical.

A mute scold follows. No matter how hard he tries, strives towards that unannounced aim of reset, his stupid heart and its childishness always ruin his plans.

The call of his name makes him turn around.

Naveen stands, jolly smile fixed in place, eyes sparkling with joy and...

Gratitude.

They chat, topics ranging from Diagnostic team cases to complaints of coffee. His orbs casually drift towards the entryway, in hope of seeing his dearest.

And as the astrologers say, the stars align, the universe comes into play, and the shimmer of black in the lambent atmosphere makes his heart skip a beat. He feels a smile emerging and hastily hides it with a scowl.

If he had to, he would have sworn that he looked like a clown.

Her ambers gaze around in a lucid, tender manner, in strike contrast to his a while ago.

There is a lack of haste, of worry, of unease.

Her very presence fills the air with tranquility and without his consent, his soul basks in it. After what felt like an eternity, their gazes meet.

Melt into each other like the wax of two candles.

Become inseparable.

She smiles, it's faint.

It seems more of a formality than a wish. The momentary cheer is replaced by a somber, melancholic expression. Her orbs drift away, gaze turns away as if to hide whatever was to come from him.

And he knows.

He's the reason.

Silence is suffocating, but right now, the chaos is even more constricting to him.

Everyone chatters, mingles, smiles.

Everyone except her.

She stands too still, flashing a half-hearted smile and half-hearted gaze here and there, as she is surrounded by the rest of her friends, preventing him from getting a better look.

As conflict rises in his interior, a to go or not to debate, the gulps of scotch become more frequent, the frown gets tighter and guilt gets heavier. Before he can drown down into the never-ending cascade of crippling self-hatred, there is a call of his name.

Naveen.

---------------------

Claps and whoots surround her, along with a cheer. She becomes the recipient of numerous bear hugs, and compliments as Naveen elaborates on her contribution to his recovery. It feels like a reel of situations played from her sweven. It took a pinch for her to realize that it wasn't.

A mic tap follows, it's Ethan's turn to speak. She freezes upon hearing her name getting repeated again. There is an uncanny depth to it, she notices. An indication that it conceals so much more than is visible. Not just pride, not just intoxicating happiness.

Gratitude, raw and pure gratitude.

And something else (or maybe not?)

Her focus all over the place, she missed a lot of the address. What stayed carved in golden words was a single sentence, unremarkably remarkable.

"It's not me, it's her. I lost all hope, but she was the one who fought till the very end, never giving up, even if she had thousands of storms to navigate through."

"There can be only one recipient of the applause today, and it's Dr Sharma."

Two contrasting emotions put her in a dilemma. Whether to let the water drops she held strongly to herself or to let the heartfelt joy induce the grin that would shine brighter than the stars the twinkle along with the forlorn moon?

Unable to decide, she let the cracks in her stoic mask deepen, let the faint upturn of lips become visible to the world. Every applaud fell short, in a haze, as the mere words spoken mere moments before played in a loop like a soft harmony.

The 360-degree turn of the evening gave her the most unexpected and the most precious memories.

The change of the blithe chilly eve to heartwarming dusk.

Rare, mysterious and yet, magnificent.

Selcouth.

---------------------

Ethan Ramsey, for the past decade of his extremely brilliant career, has never displayed even a minuscule amount of emotions. Never. The mask of stoicism fixed so perfectly, that no power could ever induce a crack in it.

No one could.

Until one day, an intern waltzed into his life like an unforeseen plot twist and induced changes no one ever could.

The mask has cracked, even if to a small degree, letting the minuscule details of a transformation out. Sometimes it could be as evident as a smile, or a genuine compliment to an intern. In other instances, it would be just the absence of the forehead frown (which had become a permanent resident at a point).

And now, the beloved plot twist of his novel stood before him, her eyes expertly decorated with kohl. She was quieter than usual, engaging in casual conversation, but prevented going into depths of it.

Their gazes never meet, only slide past each other.

He missed looking into the amber of hers, trying to figure out her thoughts like someone engaged with a very complex puzzle that ends up in a phenomenal picture.

He missed listening to her sweet whispers, mumbles which made him smile more than he had for the past decade.

He missed her.

The universe is always planning a conspiracy to make destiny true. And it's definitely an action of its, that his hand extends towards her, wordlessly.

She gazes at it, gazes at him, thinks for a while.

And finally, slips her hand, bejeweled with that bracelet she wore in Miami. He still remembers it placed on his heart, which beat at an erratic rhythm.

Which beats at an erratic rhythm now.

Looking at the Bostonian sky, only drapes of translucent mist could be seen all around. No twinkles, even the moonbeams were struggling to reach them. The silence is comfortable, only interrupted by the sips of steaming hot coffee.

Her eyes are fixed above, in a search for the hidden celestial elements. His focus stayed on the snowflakes resting on his jacket.

He leans back, places a hand down.

There is a lack of warmth.

Soon enough, another hand joins him.

The cold is gone.

And so is his search of moonbeams.

Her touch felt like light, his own moonbeam. So soft, so warm, so dear. Something he could keep etched on his skin forever.

She was his moon.

And for her, those summery blue orbs held depths of the ocean, the faint, soft wrinkles that languid years leave behind as a mark of their passing like map lines of some unknown lands.

He was her world.

In every universe, through trials and tribulations, through pain and smiles, they were destined to find their way to each other. No one powerful enough to keep them apart.

Not even they themselves.

It was a cosmic state of comfort they found themselves in. His hand in hers, their fingers interwoven, the reflex etched in his mind with an everlasting ink.

He has never believed in soulmates, but as he as leans back, eyes closed, hair fluttering along with the icy-cold breeze, having her by his side, he couldn't bring himself to believe this was anything less than destiny.

That even after so many trials of forgetting her, he would always come back to her, searching for the serenity he only finds in her presence.

The feeling is rare, confusing, maybe terrifying.

But right now, he basks in the warmth that it provides, all worries and all woes are hidden in a wooden box, discarded away from his sight. And unbeknownst to even him, he waits for the day he can kiss her the way he wants to, no ties, no binds holding them away.

Yes, he waits for the day.

PS: If you are reading this, I am very grateful for you. Thank you for reading and I hope you have a great day🤎

Tags💕 (Let me know if you would like to be added or removed) :

Perma: @gkittylove99 @neotericthemis @udishaman @aestheticartsx @twinkleallnight @schnitzelbutterfingers @sophxwithers @sweatyrysconnoisseur @nikki-2406 @choicesfanaf @trrfanaddict @starrystarrytrouble @gardeningourmet @parkbarks @mvalentine @lovablegranny @mercury84choices @izzyourresidentlawyer @jessiembruno

Open Heart (All fics and edit): @lucy-268 @maurine07 @bellcat2010 @headoverheelsforramsey @estellaelysian @shanzay44

Ethan x Pooja: @aleynareads @choicesaddict5 @stygianflood @mysticaurathings @jamespotterthefirst @ilikemenbutonlyethanramsey @takemyopenheart

@choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

[almondfish3042]

heartstrings (vol. 2)

What is your heart made of?

String, perhaps.

Yes, my heart is made of string.

Braided and scattered, frayed at the ends and knotted back together with hands wrinkled or smooth.

Cut with sharp, dull scissors and dyed with paints of all colours.

(With Life, and Time, and vivid Memory)

Nibbled at with anxious teeth; fiddled with by idle fingers.

Worn on thin, sun-brown wrists and in natty hair that refuses to be brushed.

(Strung into Hope, and Love, and slowly-fading Grief)

Carefully (almost-not-quite artfully) arranged. Perpetually-shifting pieces of morbid artwork –

Look, look; here’s a breath, a beat, an ounce of blood, sixty more seconds of Life.

Entangled, every other day. Turbulent thought-strings tied together, trapped, trembling –

Waiting to be smoothed out and rearranged, or thrown unceremoniously out the window.

Sometimes stretched to snapping point; winding around a lung, stifling, constricting

On the days I feel like falling apart, too much everything and not enough me –

Other times hanging loose, curling around intertwined arteries and draping across my ribcage

In the midnights I lie awake, alone, dreaming; counting sheep and stars and hours.

Crafting dreams and wishes and what-ifs and what-could-have-beens with string. (with heart)

Patterns emerge; tessellations and constellations; unfurling blossoms and iridescent dragonflies;

Snowflakes drifting in Midsummer, turtles swimming among the clouds,

To be tucked away; neatly, haphazardly; or given away, carefully, carelessly –

Strings to be kept, locked secretly in a box in the attic, until their colours are but a faint memory

Or until, twice-upon-an-eternity after, they are somehow intertwined with others, and others’.

To be woven into a tapestry, to be more than the sum of its insignificant parts.

To belong; to be free – to be separate and drifting; to be linked together – inescapably, inevitably.

I fashion a friendship bracelet to offer, to give, to yield. I hand over my heart like it’s worth the same

As the faded crimson thread the dusty old shop ‘round the corner always has on sale.

I reach for starry rivers unravelling before my eyes, grasp at the spiderweb-thin threads

That connect me to the world and its inhabitants, to those I want too badly to keep.

I twist them into a noose, suffocating and freeing and fraying, unfurling at the seams.

Unwind them, strung-together spools and solitary strands; bloodied shreds and tear-stained snarls.

A rope necklace that burns and chafes and reminds me that I am here, alive, grateful; despite and

Because of the bruises, scars, sorrows – faded imperfections, the imprints left behind by Life and living.

A wayward kite’s only link to the Earth, I tether myself to the ground with string –

(With you, with all the ones I have ever had the fortune and misfortune of loving);

Braid a rope-ladder reaching far, far into the clouds, that azure skyscape sprinkled with starlight –

(Daydreams, nightmares, sky-bound castles quietly woven in the hazy glowing gold of evening.)

They are strings, the chains that bind my heart –

(The tell-tale tug that ebbs and flows in time with its beats;

The growing-pains that never quite fade)

And build it, weave it, into what it is, what it yearns to be –

(What it dreams of, what it fears; what it mourns and celebrates;

All the brief years and eternal moments lost and found and to-be-discovered.)

Yes, my heart is made of string.

And so I ask.

What is your heart made of?

[maggiec70]

Fun in the Country

My version of Joachim and his BFF, Jean-Boy, at the spa in Bareges and then adjourning to one of J-B's little country properties for more typical Gascon amusements. As always, these shenanigans are seen through the viewpoint of the former Milanese contessa/current aide-de-camp. She disapproves.

Joachim Murat sent Jean a note a few days later. I’m leaving Madrid tomorrow. We should meet at Barèges. It’s a decent spa and not far from you.”

“Why would you want to visit with Prince Murat?” Mariana asked when Jean showed her the note. “You’re always scrapping about something.”

“Not always. Besides, Joachim is entertaining, even when he doesn’t mean to be.”

Mariana resigned herself to a two-day ride to the Pyrenean spa and then days of constant Gascon bragging from two masters of the genre. As rowdy as it promised to be, she hoped the change of scenery would sweep away the last of her anger. Jean had done what she insisted. He’d waved the required documents conferring the majority of his country properties to Jean-Claude under the nose of an elderly black-clad lawyer who creaked each time he moved.

“Give me an official copy,” she’d ordered the lawyer, her peremptory tone causing his furry white eyebrows to rise as his brass-rimmed spectacles slid down his nose. He should have been used to her by then, after her questions directed at him like an artillery assault had determined—finally—that he had the requisite legal acumen and ethics for the task.

“Why did you want a copy?” Jean had asked her when the lawyer scurried away, portfolio clutched tightly beneath one arm. “Don’t you trust me?”

“That’s not the problem. You won’t be here when those documents become an issue. I don’t trust anyone but myself to handle this matter properly.” And if she weren’t around, she would entrust it to one of the phalanx of attorneys who managed her affairs. After all this time with her, they were eminently trustworthy and as ruthless as the Sforzas.

Now, comfortably settled in Barèges, almost everyone drank gallons of rough red wine and told amazingly obscene stories that made Mariana cringe in embarrassment. Neither Jean nor Murat went anywhere near the spa until two days later, complaining of headaches, and by then, she hoped they would both drown. She left whenever she could to explore the neat, tiny village tucked away in a hollow of the hulking, snow-covered Pyrenees, wondering if the change of scene was worth much. She was still angry, but not for the same reasons.

“I don’t know Jean anymore. What’s come over him?” she asked Joseph one evening during a long and raucous meal.

“Given the right circumstances, men revert to a certain type. Be patient—it’ll pass.”

“I can’t imagine you behaving in such a fashion.”

“I have, but you’ve never seen it. You’ll feel better if you ignore it all.”

She couldn’t ignore anything and cringed when Jean suggested they abandon the spa for one of his country properties. “Plenty of room, much more than here. Nobody to disturb us unless we invite them,” he explained, definitely listing to one side.

Murat agreed at once. “Excellent idea, as long as there’s plenty to drink. If you know some lovely ladies to make the time pass pleasantly, be sure to invite them.”

“I’ve got enough Armagnac to put you on your imperial backside every night. As for ladies, I’ll send for as many as you like,” Jean promised in a haze of Bordeaux-inspired grandiloquence. Although the rest of their aides grinned at the prospect, Mariana was livid.

That night she sat rigidly upright in bed, every nerve quivering with anger, while Jean undressed. He wobbled as he tried to get his boots off, and she snickered at him. She hoped he would fall on his face and lie on the rough-planked floor until morning.

“What’s the matter with you?” He tossed the boots aside and fumbled with the buttons on his coat.

“How can you take Prince Murat to that refurbished abbey you bought? How can you promise to amuse him for however long he wishes and send spurious billets-doux to all the women in the countryside? Besides,” she snorted, growing angrier as she spoke, “who’d write them? I expect you’ll ask me since you can’t string three coherent words together. You do know what this makes you?”

Jean did not bother to put on his nightshirt and crawled in bed naked, collapsing against the pillows, one arm flung across his face. “I’m sure you’ll explain. My head’s splitting, so don’t take too long.”

“You’ll be an imperial procurer, in the basest sense of the phrase.”

“Humph!”

“While the prince amuses himself with whichever ladies are besotted enough to accept your invitations, you doubtless expect me to entertain you.”

“You do it anyway.”

Mariana knew neither her anger nor her disapproval would matter in the morning. Leaning over, she blew out the candles. Jean was instantly asleep, snoring gently.

“Merde alors!” She threw a pillow at him, but he never moved.

The following day, not very early, they exchanged pleasant Barèges for the rather outré former abbey of Bouillas near Lectoure. “Surely the monks had better taste than this,” Mariana said after she’d struggled with an ancient, stout wooden door and opened it onto a riotous jumble of gothic, rococo, and Louis Quinze furnishings in the refectory. “If the bedchambers are like this, I won’t be able to sleep.”

“Yes, you will,” Jean replied and led her upstairs.

“It looks like a cheap bordello,” Mariana hissed at him after half a dozen young ladies arrived, as promised, the next evening, “and now it smells like one. I hope the ghosts of the poor, dispersed monks haunt you.”

He grinned at her over the nearly bare shoulder of a blonde in a primrose satin gown determined to charm him, one way or another. Stifling an impulse to slap them both, Mariana stalked out of the refectory and up the stairs.

She sat on the bed in their chamber, full of the most opulently overdone furnishings imaginable. There was scarcely enough room to walk from the door to the bed to the clothes-press to the recessed windows with their thick, wavy glass without bumping into a piece of furniture or a low stool or tripping on the layers of Turkey carpets covering the dark wooden floor. She ignored the assaults on her senses, balled her hands into fists, and swore that this nonsense would end in the next hour or she’d pack up and leave. The muscles in her neck and shoulders tight from anger, she didn’t care what Murat or Joseph or Marcellin or anyone else did where she could see or hear them. But she refused to spend another moment watching overdressed, painted, and perfumed women fawn over Jean. “I’ll put them in their places,” she muttered, sliding off the bed, “and if it causes an uproar, as well as the end of my military career, so be it.”

Mariana yanked off her boots and tossed them in the corner. She stripped off sash, coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth, throwing them across a chair. With an impatient jerk, she removed her shirt and untied the bands across her breasts, shook her hair free of its heavy braid, and ran her fingers through it, coaxing it into its usual waves and curls. After rummaging through her trunk and Jean’s, she deliberately omitted her lace-trimmed drawers and pulled on a clean pair of tight doeskin breeches, silk stockings, and flat-heeled shoes. She took one of his shirts, the cotton batiste so soft it clung to her skin. She thought about dipping the shirt in cold water and then putting it on, as Thérèse Tallien had done with her muslin gowns during the wilder days of the Directory. Instead, she left the laces undone and tied her sash low on her hips, the heavy fringed ends swinging gracefully as she walked. She found her emerald and diamond earrings tied in the corner of a handkerchief and put them on, pleased with the way they sparkled and swayed, unconcerned with the incongruity of fine jewelry and her motley attire. Creeping down the hall and into a chamber occupied by one of the female guests, she splashed herself with perfume from a cut crystal bottle. “About what I expected,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the heavy scent of ambergris.

Mariana descended the stairs, hoping the worn treads wouldn’t creak. No one noticed her until she had sauntered halfway across the room and shoved the primrose-clad woman’s soft, bejeweled hand from Jean’s arm.

“This one belongs to me,” she said, ignoring the woman’s stunned expression and the sudden quiet in the room. Mariana perched on Jean’s knee, buried her hands in his hair, and kissed him until she ran out of breath.

“You’ve been a fool, keeping this beautiful creature hidden from the world,” Murat said. “Ma foi, I think you’ve outdone Masséna. Where’d you find her?”

“It’s a very long story,” Jean said. “I can’t tell you right now.”

Mariana enjoyed watching him squirm, although not from the prince’s comments. “What’s the matter, mon cher? Are your breeches too tight?” She nipped at his ear. “You probably shouldn’t stand up.”

“The hell I won’t!” Jean pushed her off his knee, stood abruptly, and grasped her wrist so tightly that she winced. He strode from the room, pulling her along to the sound of Murat’s approving whistle.

...and you can imagine the rest if you like. I remember laughing the entire time I spent writing the entire scene, pleased that I'd pretty well nailed it. Nothing like real historical people having sex, is there?

[pcttrailsidereader]

On the Hunt for the Skyline Trail

This is the second part of a story written by Ian McCluskey of Oregon Public Broadcasting (OPB)

The trailblazer

Bob and Eva come to a stand of towering cedars and hemlocks. Sunlight filters into the understory in narrow rays. Here the trees have been growing slowly, adding rings each year that one could count all the way back to before the United States was a country. Bob and Eva’s bootsteps are cushioned by the layer of soft forest duff, which has long covered over any track of the old Skyline trail.

Bob pauses and looks around. “Is that one?” he asks, peering a few trees ahead. He’s looking for any indication of an old wound on a tree trunk, where the bark has grown over in a scar.

As he approaches, he sees what he’d hoped for: not just a scar, but three in a row. These were cuts made a century ago by a forest ranger’s hatchet. The marks are called a “blaze.” And the person who did it, a “trailblazer.”

“I’ve always loved the lingering effect of the past,” Bob said. “The things that are so indelible that they don’t go away.”

Bob pauses to imagine the scene. The sunlight, the trees, and everything would have been essentially identical to the year the blaze was cut, 1920. That year a young forest ranger, Fred Cleater, stood in the exact same spot, and marked the blaze on both sides of the tree, before continuing southward with his pack horse, leaving a dotted line of blazes that would become the first path of the Skyline.

For millennia, a system of trails used by Indigenous people braided through the forest. Some were adopted by early fur traders. Some by ranchers to graze sheep in the hundreds of natural meadows. Turn-of-the-century logging operations cut spur roads to extract the giant old growth. From the tracks of past users, Cleater pieced together a 260-mile route from Mount Hood to Crater lake.

The U.S. Forest Service described the Skyline’s original route as “made up of a combination of many pieces of rough trails, often with but a frail tread, usually devious in direction, the whole tied together in a quite intangible manner, and quite apparently a choice by course of least resistance.”

Before the Pacific Crest Trail, the Oregon Skyline ran down the spine of the Cascades, from the Columbia River to the California border.

Courtesy of the U.S. Forest Service

Ghosts of the Great Depression

Cleater’s plans included shelters every 10 miles, which were eventually built in the 1930s as Depression-era public works projects. By 1936, the Oregon Skyline Trail had been extended to reach across the state, from the Columbia Gorge Ranger Station near the town of Cascade Locks south to Soda Mountain, just a few miles from the California border.

The Skyline was a modern trail with amenities. Remote outpost ranger stations could offer hay for horses or some chance for resupply. A line of early telephone cable was laid to connect a string of telephones along the route so hikers could call if they ran into trouble.

“Although improvements along the trail will modernize the convenience to make it a comfortable excursion for even the most city wise,” the Forest Service wrote in 1934, “it must be left in its rugged state where possible to satisfy those travelers searching for the primitive.”

During the 1920s and ‘30s, the Skyline had a heyday. Bob wants to find this moment again. “It was kind of a renaissance era of humans interacting with wilderness in a way that was very different,” Bob said. “It wasn’t survival, it was just coming out here to become whole again.”

Bob pulls the VW bus up to the Clackamas Lake Ranger Station. This location had been a ranger station since 1905, but between 1933-35, the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) built 11 of the buildings here. Today it is listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

One of the buildings burned down in 2003. All that remains is a towering chimney of hand-laid stone and the hand-poured concrete foundation. Bob notices what appears to be signatures in the cement. He pushes aside the overgrown brush. “R.E. Bartel, 1933,” he reads, then notes, “These guys were working hard out here.”

Bob speculates that a couple of young men from the CCC poured the concrete during construction and scribed their names while it was still wet. When the cabin had been built over the foundation, the names would have been hidden, anonymous.

One of the young men was from Chicago, like Bob. The workers of the CCC received $30 a month, a good wage during the Great Depression. They were allowed to keep just $5 of the income for themselves and $25 was sent to their families back home. Bob can imagine being one of those guys in that generation. His imagination echoes with sounds of work and voices of young rangers. He imagines the ringing of axes and saws. The pounding of hammer to anvil in the blacksmith shop. The smell of coffee and pancakes in the mess hall. Pine sap and boot grease.

“Here it feels alive,” Bob said. “You still have the experience of being in the 1920s and ‘30s. It’s really frozen in time.”

Bob and Eva find the cabin of the district ranger intact, as if he had locked up that morning and would be back in a few days. The windows have the iconic “Forest Service tree” shutters from the ‘20s and ‘30s.

Eva sits on a bench carved from a solid log.

“Oh it’s really dark in there,” Bob says, peering into a window.

“See anything?” Eva asks.

“Maybe a mirror in there, that’s about it.”

The Skyline Trail connected a string of remote Forest Service outposts called guard stations. Travelers could find feed for their horses and resupply.

Courtesy of the U.S. Forest Service

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Handmaiden🌹1

Warnings: eventual dark elements (tags to be added as fic continues)

This is dark!(king)Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: Princess Madeline has left her homeland to marry a king. On her journey, she has brought her most trusted handmaiden. Little do either of them know how perilous their new home will be.

Note: Alright, here’s another medieval AU ft. King Steve. His darkness will build as we go and we’re gonna ride those vibes, thots. I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Madeline was the fairest woman you’d ever seen. Her strawberry blonde waves flowed like water down her back and shoulders. Her jaw was etched by the gods themselves and her lips were soft to the eye and as you guessed, the touch. Her eyes were like gems and her figure was graceful and lithe. Her voice was a melody and her laugh like the pluck of a string. 

How could she not be perfect? Porcelain and precious. She was a princess. The eldest of Eddor.

It would be unnatural not to envy  her. Not to compare your ordinary features with her extraordinary ones. Not to measure your circumstance against hers. You had grown up in her shadow. Once a playmate, now a maid. You served as her closest companion and attendant. A mere servant, you were but another accessory among many.

Your jealousy was not spiteful. Many a peasant lived a life worse than yours. You did not complain or want. It was the order of things. The world as it was.

She was serene, often intimidatingly calm. That day, you could see the nervous tension in her cheek. Not many others would notice but you did. You didn’t blame her. She was to meet her betrothed at last. A man more than ten years here elder; of the few men grander than her in prestige; a widower and king.

You stood just a few steps away, hands folded and head slightly bowed in deference. If she needed you, she would call to you. You were glad for the camouflage of your low standing. Among the foreign court, on such a significant day, you were nothing; just another witness.

Your journey was long. A month at sea, a fortnight in a draughty northern castle, a week upon the road, and finally you were in the capital; Halder’s Arch. A night spent awaiting the first meeting and a further hour for the king’s appearance. The other servants were growing restless; Madeline’s ladies, too.

 It would be a sad and heartless act to send a princess out upon her own. Sybil and Lucille were the only noblewoman to accompany Madeline. They were to remain at the foreign court and seek their own suitors. Her guards, her priest, and her physician were also among the party as well. Her retinue was finely outfitted.

Finally, the doors shifted and the armoured guards hit their staffs on the stone to announce the arrival. As the hall opened up, you held your breath as Madeline did the same. She raised her chin slightly and rose with the rest to receive her betrothed. A line of lords preceded their king, hidden by the group of men.

The Princess of Eddor was announced first. Her crest bearer spoke loudly for all the people to hear. Then it was the king’s turn. Steven, first of his name, son of Stewart, ruler of Anglhem and its territories. The lords broke and formed two rows as they stood at attention.

King Steven strode between them, as proud and stoic as the princess he would wed. You kept your chin down but watched him below your lashes. His dark blonde hair was thick above a trimmed beard. He wore a simple golden crown without stones, his jacket a turquoise brocade slashes with citrine. A chain of golden links hung from his shoulders with a single sapphire upon it. 

It was simple but bespoke a man of intent; of standing. His simplicity said it all. You suspected he dressed for the occasion; a very deliberate impression for his future wife. The capital, the castle, the lords, did not suggest a ruler without extravagance.

The king stopped before Madeline and bowed to her; she curtsied to him in kind. He seemed pleased as he took her hand and kissed it. His eyes flicked all over as he considered his new wife; his second. The first had come to a tragic end during a summer plague not two years past.

“Princess,” He greeted. “It is a privilege and a pleasure to meet you at last. The painter did you an injustice for no canvas could capture such beauty.”

“And you, my king,” She said evenly. “I did hear of a handsome and noble king but the accounts do leave much untold.”

You were always rather amused by such empty courtesies. These words were rehearsed and recited without thought. It was what was expected. A princess could not come off as appalled by her suitor, even if she were, and a king could not be disappointed in a princess, even for a crooked nose or blotchy complexion. It was all an act. You did not envy the fallacy of status.

Your eyes wandered as the royals went about their performance. The audience was rapt and marvelled at the perfect pair; a stately king and a beautiful princess. You bit down to keep from grinning wryly. Your amusement was stifled completely as your eyes were caught by a pair most unexpected. 

As Steven was offered a chair to sit with his queen, his gaze strayed from her. You withheld your surprise and assured yourself he was merely distracted by the portrait behind you or perhaps a nick in the stone. It couldn’t be you. Servants were like windows; transparent.

His brow twitched and he looked back to the princess. Her ladies were dazzled by the king’s stature, the lords were pleased by the princess’ grace. All seemed to be in a trance; all but those who held their attention. 

Madeline held her veneer only because the cracks could not be noticed by strangers. Steven’s matched hers though you saw no flaw. You only saw a man sure of himself because he knew what to say. To him, it was a ritual, each step another closer to the end.

You straightened at the subtle signal from the princess. She wanted wine. You went to her and took the ewer from the table beside her. You filled the king’s goblet first and presented it to him with a bow. He took it and you repeated the steps for the princess. She thanked you and you didn’t miss the king’s eye. He was watching you. Why?

You resumed your vigil along the wall with the other servants. Your gown differed from no other. The blue-grey wool was plain enough that it could’ve been another stone in the wall. Your cap hid your hair and no ornament sparkled at throat or wrist. You lowered your head as the king turned his goblet in his hand and gazed over at the princess.

You wanted to laugh at yourself. It was preposterous. He hadn’t looked at you for any reason but what you offered; a cup of wine. How could one ignore a figure right before them? You did long for it to be over for the sake of your weary mind. Your travel had left you endlessly exhausted. It was clearly affecting your judgement.

Yet, you peeked up again and the king squinted over at you. You blinked as he grinned and leaned back. He drank from his goblet and returned his gaze to Madeline. She presented him the letter sealed with her father’s crest. He accepted it and she seemed not to notice his wandering eyes.

Maybe because they did not wander. Maybe because he had been thinking and they averted to follow his thoughts. Or he was listening and did consider her words as he considered the room. 

You twined your hands together behind your back. You were trained, you were patient, you were attentive. You could bear yet another royal meeting. You could cling to your duty and see it through. You only had to resist the nagging fatigue that caused your mind to drift. 

You needed to focus as the princess’ goblet was empty.

🌹

The wedding was already well-prepared. Both parties had settled their arrangements long before that fateful meeting. Steven and his advisers had the date, the feast, the ceremony, all plotted carefully for the next week. Madeline had her gown in her trunk and her virtue intact. Or so it was written in their betrothal.

The princess seemed pleased with her husband. That night she watched herself in the mirror as you brushed out her hair. She touched her long neck and her fingers trailed down to her collarbone. She let out a wearisome sigh.

“Do you think he was taken by me?” She asked. “He was cordial but a marriage cannot survive on cordial.”

“I’ve never known a man who wasn’t taken by you, your highness,” You dragged the bristles through her lush strands. “A king could not hope for a better princess.”

“Oh, so they say,” She preened. “I am told he sent his painter to at least a dozen courts to paint their princesses. Then he was presented with their likeness and he chose me himself.”

“And you were deemed the worthiest to share his crown then,” You said. “I see not how he could be disappointed.”

“And I cannot say I am,” She smiled and batted her lashes. “He is very handsome. I feared when they said he was older than me.”

“He doesn’t appear to suffer from it,” You assured her. “His step is as sure as any youth.”

She was silent as you finished brushing out her hair and you parted it. You began to braid her long tresses before she found her voice again. When she was thoughtful, she was often plotting.

“And the wedding night?” She ventured quietly. “Do you think he will be pleased with me then?”

“I… am certain he should be,” You said stiffly. “I see not how any man cannot be pleased with his wife in such a way.”

She giggled and played with the buttons of her sleeping gown. She eyed you and looked away guiltily. You tilted your head at her and tied up the end of her braid.

“What is it?” You asked.

“Oh, you know,” She stood and turned to you. “I was always told servants were more experienced in those matters, but you are always so modest.”

“As I have served you loyally, when should I have had time to take experience in such matters?”

She laughed and pulled a stray thread from your cap. 

“Much too loyal,” She chided. “Let us retire for the night. This kingdom is still strange to me and I do wish to know it better before I am bound to it entirely.”

🌹

Madeline was not to see her betrothed again until the wedding day. Their separation was tradition and ensured the legitimacy of the marriage. Thus, the princess could only emerge from her chambers when she was assured the king was engaged and the corridors were clear. 

On the first day after their introduction, she took to the gardens, dewy with the early spring dampness. The second she explored the wing within which her rooms were. On the third, she was warned to stay in as the king was to attend to the wedding’s final arrangements. She was irritated by her exile but not unhappy. It would end soon enough and this would be her castle to reign as she wished.

As you had since you were children, you slept beside her and woke before her. You touched her shoulder and advised her to wake but she stirred only a little. You dressed and left the lanterns unlit as the sun streamed in through the windows. You hid your hair beneath your cap and allowed yourself a moment of vanity as you adjusted your skirts in the mirror.

The best way to rouse the princess was food. You closed the heavy door behind you and greeted the guards who stood in the corridor. Lawrence and Hal were selected by Madeline’s own father and had served her since she was a girl. You knew them well and they were little disturbed by the mousy maid upon her duties.

You carefully counted the corners as you still found the castle unfamiliar and confounding. The day before, you’d become so lost, you had to ask another servant how to find your way back. You loathed a repeat but it was likely as you already felt entirely displaced.

You came upon the lower floors where the kitchens resided. You were confident that your destination was close but found yourself in a hall you’d never been before. A round door was open to the cool morning air and voices mingled with the scent of horses. You cursed under your breath and looked back over your shoulder. You must’ve turned the wrong way at the stairs.

You were kept from righting your course as the voices grew louder and a shadow appeared in the doorway. A lord, vaguely familiar from among those who had accompanied the king, strolled through as he laughed over his shoulder. You skirted against the wall and bowed your head in deference.

You peaked up through your lashes as he was followed by another. You recognised King Steven as he yawned behind his hand.

“You disturbed me so early for--” He complained but paused as his eyes fell upon you. “...nothing.” He finished slowly as he nodded at you. 

He carried on as he caught stride with his companion who reprimanded him for his grumbles. They were bawdy and the king took no offence to the remonstrance. You kept your head down until you heard them turn the corner. You wondered little at the reason for the king’s visit to the stables; you only wanted to retreat before the stench lurked in any further.

[afandommultiverse]

Verbal Mistakes - Nozel Silva LEMON

Words - 1389 Request -  

A/n - Enjoy!

Y/n P.O.V

He's been down there for days... its like he hardly went to bed anymore to busy with whatever it was he wouldn't tell me. I was sick of it but he never listened, rather he ignored me. He didn't even bother to look at me. But like clockwork, I found my legs moving without thought, tiptoeing down the steps and behind the huge door which held Nozel inside.

I knocked 3 times, one, two, three... and of course no answer. I flicked the lock inside the door and pushed through, only to be stopped by Nozel. Standing in front of me, he wore a face I didn't know.

"When- will you cut this childish behavior out?" He seemed to growl the words out like a feral dog though his face remained all the more stoic. But his eyes, they were lit like fires, angry and irritable, restless and tired.

"Nozel-"

"No! It annoying, Y/n. I'm working! I can't listen to your pleas every. Single. Night." I couldn't look him in the eye. Those eyes weren't the eyes I loved. I just wanted him to be okay, was that so wrong? I know he was tired, and staying here for all hours of the day wasn't going help whatever he was working on. 

For my lack of response, he went to close the door, moving to push me put, again. It was under his breath he whispered,

"When did I learn to love someone so weak." I stopped, and quicker than a flash I had Nozel against the door, which had slammed against the wall of his office.

"I am not your sister, I wont simply let you push me around like your all so mighty. You are as weak as they come Nozel, and all your training will never let you live that down." My grip on his collar tight, I shook him out of his shocked haze.

"Consider this the last night I annoy you, Captain Silva." It was then it felt like the wind was really knocked out of Nozel, like the blow to his shakily built pride wasn't enough, the loss of you seemed to make him really crumble. Regret began pour into his eyes but it was all to late. You were already gone, and when he did run to find you there wasn't a single trace of you ever being there.

*** 3rd P.O.V

Three days later, Nozel stood before the wizard king, a urgent summons.  Although annoyed, Nozel couldn't refuse, it was his duty and expectance to go, and with heavy feet he did. Julius waited no time in getting to the point, his curiosity blunt.

"Ahh, Capitan Silva, may I question why your fiancé is demanding for a immediate squad change?" Nozel almost tripped in his steps towards the desk, like said, Julius wasted no time.

"W-What?" A knot tied tightly in Nozel stomach. It was true, she truly was leaving.

"When?" Nozel asked hurriedly, he had been looking for you, but no spell could find you and no mage could catch scent of you.

"Y/n left an note sometime in the night, quick in and quick out. Care to explain?"

***

Y/n P.O.V

I had jut gone to sleep when the sound of my heavy door opening and closing tickled my ears. The calm steps towards the bed gave me time ti sit up and look around the dark room.

"Yami?" But who I lied my eyes on, was not Yami. It was Nozel.

"How did you get in here?" I seethed, the candles in the room lighting up the once dark room. Nozel stepped forward again. He looked horrible, worse then what he had looked like before you left him. His braid hung frizzy and unkept in front of his face. His eyes were dark and sunken in, skin paler than usual.

"What happened to you?" In the five years I loved this man, he's never looked a bigger mess. Even his clothes were shambled, thrown carelessly together. Nozel emitted and low empty chuckle and looked down.

"I lost the love of my life." My heart pulled at my chest and swam to choke my throat. I have to stay strong. Nozel's eyes looked up to find mine, they looked bloodshot and bleary. My own eyes were hard and narrowed, I hope he was getting the gist.

"Why are you here, Nozel?" I sighed, finally looked away and relaxing, what good would it do to glare at him like a child, it'd only prove him right wouldn't it?

"I came to apologize."

"In the middle of the night."

"I couldn't find you, you were gone for days, I needed to make sure you were okay." He tried to reason, as if he didn't come for his own selfish-reasons. He went to take another step closer, and he succeded, walking towards the corner of my bed and sitting on it.

"I didn't mean what I said." He whimpered out into the still air. I scoffed looking to the side before meeting his sad eyes. It was hard looking at a man you've only known as strong. In the five years of dating Nozel and the years before, I've never seen him so weak and broken. Nozel turned away from me moving to get up, taking my silence as the end of the conversation.

"I'm sorry I shouldn't-" I grabbed Nozel by the wrist and pulled him up to the bed.

"Jesus Christ-!"

"Get in here you fuckin idiot, I'm-... I'm sorry too," I mutter and curled myself around Nozel as he slipped under the covers and gripped me back tightly. He seemed to shake as he held me, and the quietest sniffle escaped him. I looked up at Nozel, his eyes teary but he was clearly trying to fight them back.

"I'm sorry, Nozel, for leaving and of course what I said, but I won't be taking anything like that every again you hear me." I flicked his chest and he chuckled hoarsely.

"Never again, my love." I smiled and leaned in and kissed him softly. Nozel was quick to reciprocate grabbing at me tighter and sighing into the kiss, finally relaxing what must have been the first time in weeks.

This heated fast with the eager touching from Nozel and the complete opened armed welcome for me, things were moving fast and in no time, did I find myself nude beneath him. Hot and panting, Nozel took his time gazing down at me, pupils dilatated. His messy hair completely out of its braid and fell down the side of his face as he leaned down, tickling my shoulder.

"Nozel please, its been to long," I begged, pulling him in closer and locking my legs around his hips. Nozel gripped my chin and made me look at him, eyes burning with a lustful passion.

"You'll never have to wait again. I promise." He sealed that promise with a slow push of his hips. Nozel's thrusts started out slow but as he grew more desperate and determined his hips sped up. Torrents of heat rushed to fill my body, sensitive from lack of touch and the delicious pounding from Nozel, my body had no problems with bring me to climax quick.

String pulled tight and taunt it took three perfectly aimed thrusts from Nozel to finally finish me off. Mind blank with white hot pleasure, I griped and clawed down Nozel's back. Nozel faltered as I gripped him tighter, moaning in my ear lewdly as he finished inside me.

Nozel collapsed on me, careful of his weight but none the less heavy. I laughed and pushed him off me.

"I can't breath!" Nozel laughed and turned me to my side, pulling me into him and spooning me. I got myself comfortable before cringing in disgust.

"Are you trying to get me pregnant?" I slapped his forearm, moving to get up and clean myself but Nozel pulled me back down.

"Would that be so bad?"

"Nozel...?"

"Lets get married, Y/n. I never want to lose you again, I can't, It would kill me. This has showed me that without you, my life is worth no living. You are my light darling, I can't see without you." I held Nozel's face, and enormous smile spreading over my face.

"Yes!"

[up-in-flames-writing]

Like a phoenix

I wrote a lil somethin' somethin' for Resident Evil Village. I kinda got hooked last week after seeing a playthrough of it (I don't play horror games myself) & now I've got my own OC. So, tis is meant to be a lil introduction forLord Garet Feniks. Enjoy.

~~==~~==~~==~~==~~

The uproar died down as Mother Miranda stepped up onto the pew, silencing the rowdy lycans with a wave of her arm. She surveyed the gathered, Donna sitting shyly at her right, Angie running around Moreau’s legs at her left. Alcina was inspecting her nails, sitting prim & proper to the right, & Karl was fidgeting, crossing & uncrossing his legs, grumbling something under his nose & scowling at the air on the left. Up above, in the rafters of the cathedral, the lycans were getting impatient too, small growls & snarls coming from every direction.

The sun was high up in the sky, filtering through the holes in the roof, & yet there was still someone missing from the congregation. The family gathering could not start until all of her children were present, after all, & yet one of her sons was still missing.

“Would anyone happen to know where Lord Feniks is?” The Lords all looked between each other, Angie scurrying across the floor to sit with Donna as all four of them shook their heads simultaneously.

“M...maybe he got lost?” Moreau stammered out nervously, looking around the cathedral as if the fifth lord would just pop out of the shadows all of a sudden with a loud ‘BOO!’

“Highly unlikely. He is not a child,” Alcina remarked, getting an offended ‘HEY!’ out of Karl at the subtle jab, “I would assume he would be busy with the lycans.”

“Yeah, with his friend.” Karl jeered.

“Maybe Urias ate him!” Angie cackled from Donna’s lap, looking as if she was about to tip onto the floor with all of her laughter shaking her tiny body. Miranda only shook her head, unsatisfied with her children’s answers, & disappointed with her son’s tardiness. He must have gotten it from Karl, or the other way around. Being late must simply be a family thing for them.

“If he does not arrive soon, we will just have to start without him.” She remarked, to the nodding of all her children. She cannot make exceptions for one unruly son, after all. The had to make preparations, they had to all be aware of the ceremony, all know the parts they were destined to play in this plan of hers. His had been long time coming, she couldn’t give up now.

“So, why did you gather us this time, M...” Heisenberg’s question was interrupted by a loud BANG from behind Miranda, as the chapel doors flew open, & silence covered everything like a thick, stifling, choking blanket. Not even the lycans dared to let out a noise, they didn’t even dare open their muzzles as a stench like burning flesh filled the air, a noxious, flammable gas lingering in all the corners of the building, a silent warning from Lord Feniks himself.

The figure standing in the doorway was tall, muscular, his body covered in a thick fur coat shining in the light of the sun, the grey fur skinned from a wolf. His legs were covered by leather trousers, crafted masterfully out of pig skin, leather of the same kind woven into belts hung around Feniks’ chest & waist, a dagger & liquid-filled vails sitting in sheaths at his waist, & round, grenade-like objects bound by more leather were attached to the belt at his chest. There was a war horn carved from bone hanging from his waist, string made from horse hair binding it tightly. Upon his head sat a skull, great antlers growing out of it, reaching towards the sky like the branches of a great behemoth. From behind the eye sockets of the deer skull came a faint glow, & a raspy, deep breathing. It was as if someone ripped him from his times, some sort of witch of the 13th century Poland, & thrust him into the quaint little village of Romania in the 21st century.

Lord Feniks took a step forward, horrifying burns & callouses covering his bare feet as he descended further into the cathedral, skin peeling at his ankles, presenting the melted flesh below. More of those scars littered his arms, seen even under the steel gauntlet that he wore on his left hand, clicking the sharpened claws together in a rhythm, click-clack, click-clack-clack, click-clack, click-clack-clack. More burns stretched across his bared collarbones, up his neck, covering any & all slithers of his face that could be seen under the skull he wore.

The closer he got, the stronger the smell of gas became, until it was near nauseating, that disgusting reminder that they could all go up in flames at any moment, should he so wish. Miranda could also hear a delicate squeaking as her middle child come closer, something that almost resembled the squeaking of a rat, or two rats, overlapping each other. Feniks approached her yet closer, & she could see the back of his head as he did a half-hearted bow before her. His brown hair had been tied in a braid that day, a slither of white leading from his right temple & to the very end of the braid. And, beneath that there was movement, a wriggling & wiggling as suddenly a rat peaked its whiskered face from below the confines of the skull. Then another head peaked out, one brown & one black, & then the greyish body followed suit, as the two-headed rat ran down Feniks’ arm & into his awaiting hand.

“If it isn’t Lord Garet Feniks. Took your time, cousin.” Karl snarled, finally settling on sitting with his legs crossed, his left ankle resting on his right knee. Garet huffed, the glow from behind the skull getting more intense as he glared at Lord Heisenberg.

“Zamknął byś się, Heisenberg, bo ci jeszcze język wyrwę.” Garet cursed the lord out, sneering as he stalked closer. His voice was deep & booming, a raspy quality to it as with every word he spoke, the room filled more & more with the flammable gas that his lungs began to produce after he was given the cadou.

“Halt dich still, Feniks!” Karl shot back, uncrossing his legs & bursting out of his chair to the chants of ‘fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!’ from Angie. He glared up at Feniks, trying to give himself some more height by bouncing on the balls of his feet, waving his hammer around like it was a toy & not a mass of metals. Feniks clenched & unclenched his left hand, holding it up & positioning his fingers as if he was ready to snap them, the silver of the gauntlet glinting from the beams of sunlight filtering through the rooftop.

Miranda shook her head, pinching the bridge of her nose to keep her cool, the stomped up to them & from her back burst out her wings, an echoing fwoosh sounding as the black feathers obscured Heisenberg’s & Feniks’ view of one another, “Enough! Both of you! Sit!” She commanded, sending them both a displeased & quite disappointed look. She couldn’t see what sort of expression Garet was making at her under his skull, but Karl had a decidedly furious scowl marring his face, & was clearly still raring to go. This would be a long meeting.

But, eventually, both of the Lords sat at their mother’s command, Karl first, & Garet beside him on the bench flanking Miranda’s left, together echoing “Yes, mother.”

“Finally. We can begin.”

~~==~~==~~==~~==

Hope you enjoyed, & I promised to be a bit more active on this blog in the future.

[loruleanheart]

Desired Fate, Chapter 15

Read on FF.net

Read on Ao3

King Rhoam had to collect himself, letting out a huff of defeat, grappling with whom he should be most angry. The thought occurred to him that he was partially to blame. What if his stern treatment of Zelda had stunted her ability to unlock her power, or worse... had chased her into the arms of that man? He feared it was true, but he couldn't let it show. This was one of the worst possible outcomes coupled with one he never would have imagined. It was a lot to take in, but he felt - no knew - that as King his immediate concern was the Calamity. Finding a fitting punishment for that man would have to be considered later - if there was a later, which was unlikely without Zelda's fully realized power. But Rhoam knew if he had the chance he would be willing to break her heart one final time if it meant that man was dealt with appropriately. In time, she would move on and she would thank him someday.

Rhoam surveyed the Champion's shaken expressions. The wind silently sent the tall grass rippling, giving an unsettled atmosphere in the wake of what had been witnessed. Rhoam turned his back to them, focusing on the beast that was encircling Hyrule castle. There was a long pause before he spoke. "Champions, it is time to take to your Divine Beasts. Although we may lack the means to seal Ganon away, we must continue to defend Hyrule until the very end."

Impa took in the expressions of the Champions and spoke. "Wait, Your Majesty. If I may… Astor gave a warning regarding the Divine Beasts, and considering that Ganon has already taken control of the Guardians I think we should listen. We must be prepared for anything Ganon may throw at us."

Rhoam turned. "Are you seriously suggesting we listen to the ramblings of that insane man calling himself a prophet?"

"But, Your Majesty… What other choice do we have?"

"Not a chance! I'm not going to hearken to anything that man has to say. By the goddesses, he's going to need someone holier than Hylia when I find him!"

The Sheikah woman shifted uncomfortably but stood her ground. "But, Your Majesty..." This time, Rhoam could detect the tiniest hint of disapproval in her voice, perhaps even veiled disgust, a tone that believed he should be begging Zelda's forgiveness for humiliating her and treating that prophet with such disrespect since it was so painfully obvious Zelda cared about him for some reason Rhoam couldn't comprehend. "What about Princess Zelda? I'm worried for her."

"You think I'm not?" Rhoam said, irritated.

"We can't be so quick to give up on her, nor can we discount the effort she has put in. If we take extra precautions we can still use the Divine Beasts to locate her. I choose to remain optimistic and believe she will access her power very soon."

Rhoam was at a loss. Impa was too much like a friend to Zelda, not the advisor he had appointed her to be. He was baffled at how she did not at all seem angered by Zelda's shameful display and complete abandonment of her duty. Rhoam was about to rebuke the Sheikah woman when the four champions and Link gave a nod of agreement at Impa's words. The King stood silently as the group began to devise a plan to oppose the blights, should they appear.

oOo

Zelda opened her eyes and looked around, assessing the place Astor had taken them. It appeared to be an area of the Lost Woods she was unfamiliar with. Yet there was something distinctly different about this place from those dreary woods. There was an abundant amount of Silent Princess flowers everywhere, more than Zelda had ever seen in one place. She knew immediately that there was something otherworldly about this place.

"No one will bother us here," Astor said calmly. Zelda could tell he was growing more accustomed to her touch. He was not as eager to let go of her as he had before. The shoulder of his robe was damp from her tears. The prophet took notice but mercifully said nothing.

"Where are we? It looks a bit like the Lost Woods, but… It's just so beautiful." She looked up, seeing stars dimly giving their light through the canopy of the trees. Was it always night here? A beautiful, illusionary realm where time remained still?

Astor gave Zelda's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "It's a place of respite I think. I found this place after I cut ties with the Yiga Clan. And I think for you, rest is well deserved."

Zelda dropped her gaze. "How can I rest when everyone is facing the Calamity, while I am here in relative comfort and safety? Already, Father has accused me of running from my duty… And he has no reason to think otherwise… At least from his perspective. I..I'm so ashamed. I can only hope that with your words, the Champions will be safe." Zelda said, tensely, still trying to recover.

"He's an ignorant old fool with neither the blood of the goddess or the gift of prophecy. As a prophet of the Calamity, Ganon impressed its fear of your power upon me, sending me visions of things to come, so I know you will awaken to your power soon. That is fate's true course that Ganon seeks to upend. And, I'm not unaware of how hard you've tried. I have watched your pains to unlock your power for some time now." And it was true. All those years he had watched with calm assurance that Calamity Ganon would rise and bring Hyrule to its knees, she trained by praying in freezing cold water until she collapsed and bore the brunt of her failure that only stung more as the years rolled by.

Zelda gave a small nod of acknowldgement, although she was too broken down to take much comfort in his words. She wanted so much to touch his face and tell him how much she loved him, but she held back, not wanting to feel any more vulnerable than she already did. She was afraid she might hurt him on account of the fresh bruise he had received. It was clear that her father had struck him. "I was so afraid of what Father might do to you. I'm so sorry for asking you to accompany me back to the Castle". H-he's a mean old man…" Zelda sniffed, breaking into a relieved but slightly tearful giggle.

Astor smirked slightly, finding Zelda adorable in her moment of catharsis. "You managed to abide that man for seventeen years? I see that you are stronger than I would have thought. And don't be sorry. There's nowhere else I need to be except by your side."

Zelda smiled a bit at his words. It was such a relief to see her smile again.

Astor continued. "I never thought it possible, but you were able to pull me back over the threshold and away from Calamity Ganon. No one has given me the amount of consideration you have."

Zelda's lovely green eyes lit up and Astor knew those dark days serving Calamity Ganon were finally over, and most surprising to him, he hadn't realized how awful those years had been until now. It was disorienting, like waking up from a distended dream. And he couldn't resist her any longer. No one had ever held to him or looked upon him in the way she did. He couldn't be the one to help her unlock her power, he knew that, but he wanted to at least pretend.

"How can I help you unlock your power…?" There was a sensual note in his voice, as he cupped her cheek, still damp with tears. Zelda's breath hitched in anticipation as he dipped his head to meet his lips to hers. She gave a small sigh of happiness, trapping his lips with hers, wishing she could savor the moment for all time. A single tear slid down her cheek, feeling a sense of release, drinking deeply of that kiss. She pulled down the hood of his robe, being careful to avoid the bruises on his hollow cheeks as her fingers grazed his pallid skin.

"Take all that you need from me," He breathed between kisses, taking her in the most intimate embrace before grabbing her under the ass and hoisting her up with some effort. Zelda gave a surprised but pleased sound.

"Exquisite..." Astor complimented, giving it a squeeze.

Zelda giggled and kissed him again, slowly, intensely, though she wobbled a bit, Astor struggling to support her weight. An intoxicating warmth spread throughout her whole being, her body yearning for his undeniably. But a dim feeling of sadness began to creep in as she wondered if they ever truly had a chance to be together that wasn't in secret. Would anyone ever accept them when there were so many reasons they would object? He would likely be put to death, and she'd have no say in the matter. Yet she couldn't stop herself from loving him.

If I can't realize my power, there might not be life after the Calamity, Zelda scolded herself.

Astor gave a pleased laugh. "Alright, Your Highness. You're breaking my arms." He set her down, with an apologetic look.

Zelda uttered an almost involuntary whimper of longing, reaching out for him again, her anxieties starting to overtake her again as doubts plagued her more than ever. "Lay down with me while I fall asleep?"

Astor gave her a stunned, blank expression for a moment.

"Hey, don't make this difficult." Zelda teased, pulling at the strings of his robe.

"Y-yes, Princess" Astor laughed as they kissed, carefully taking off his gold belt, the string of beads around his hips, and collar that hung over his shoulders. He helped her remove his robe, which was held together with hidden clamps. Astor draped the robe over her shoulders, and Zelda wrapped it around herself like a blanket, taking a moment to enjoy its softness and the warmness of it.

Zelda's gaze moved over him, admiring his silhouette. Under the robe, he wore a high-collared crimson shirt and a pair of black riding pants that did not appear ancient and worn like his robe.

They laid down together on the moss-covered ground. Astor slid his hand under the robe which was draped over her, sliding his hand over the curve of her hip where the folds of her pure white dress gathered. His name escaped her, softly. Zelda raised up slightly to lean on his chest and kissed him vehemently. Astor greedily wrapped an arm around her waist, kissing back with savage abandon.

Zelda drew away slowly, pushing his braided lock of hair away from his eye absentmindedly, noticing the fine lines under his eyes he hid under dark makeup. His dark brows tensed as he smiled a bit, giving her an affectionate but pensive gaze

Zelda sensed there was something he was keeping from her. Like there was something haunting him. Was something going to happen to him that he knew about? He was a prophet after all. She couldn't imagine the heavy emotional toll that came with glancing one's own future.

Zelda could barely keep her eyes open. It wasn't long before she fell asleep in his arms.

"Happy Birthday, Princess…" Astor had waited such a long time for this fated day, the day Ganon would rise. Yet, he was not spending it as he would have originally envisioned. He could barely comprehend that he was lying next to the Princess of Hyrule, helping to comfort her on her darkest day. And for the first time in his life, he understood what it was to love and be loved.

[remmyswritings]

Knots for Nott// theodore��“teddy” nott x reader

HELLO MY BEAUTIFUL PUFFS! I figured I’d share with you my first of two requests that I wrote/will be writing today. Thank you @booksmusicteaandanimals​ for the AMAZING IDEA!!! The main idea: Theo and the reader communicate through knots. Anyway, I hope y’all enjoy this!!!

tag list: @booksmusicteaandanimals​, @curious-curios​, @summer-writes​, @willowbleedsonpaper​, @strawberriesonsummer​, @jenniweaslee​, @cherrycolakxsses​, @peeves-a-legend​, @heart-of-tempered-steel​

*Not my image, found on Unsplash*

Even after being with Theo for the past 7 years and having been engaged for the past year, you still couldn’t quite believe how it is that the two of you got together. You could still remember how you first caught Theo’s attention all those years ago.

It was already the middle of your 5th year and to help keep yourself calm with all the changes Umbridge was making you started tying different knots on small pieces of string and making braids with them. You had first started making them for yourself, but then your roommates saw them and asked if they could have some, which then led to other students (some who you didn’t even know) asking for you to make some as well. You couldn’t really say that you had created a business since you never made students pay but sometimes you were given something in return, whether it was notes, handmade items, even food (especially from Honeydukes… you had a HUGE sweet tooth). One day, however, you decided that you would share your special knots with even more students, you couldn’t help it with your Hufflepuff nature. And that, gals and guys, is how you meet Theodore Nott.

You had packaged up the knot which was all green and told the owl, “Send this knot to a Slytherin.”

Turns out, the owl hadn’t heard the word “knot” instead they heard the name Nott. At least that’s what you think occurred. Which resulted in Theodore Nott receiving a random package one Wednesday morning, with a little note attached, “I hope you enjoy this knot as much as I enjoyed making it! - The Knot Puff”

Theo pulled out the ivory green knot and couldn’t help but admire the design. You had made a simple knot, one typically used to start braids, and wrapped one string around the other in an infinity design until you close the design with a bowline knot. There was still some string left over, just enough for him to tie the design to his bag, which is exactly what he did. Then Theo went on his way, looking down at the way the green knot stood out against his caramel colored bag. For the next week or so, he waited hoping for another knot from you. He no longer cared if you had sent it to him by mistake, he just hoped that another package would somehow make its way to him.

Blaise, noticing the change in his behavior, tried to figure out why he cared so much about the post. That is, until he saw the design hanging off of his bag. Unlike Theo, Blaise had the chance to partner with you in class before and knew exactly who the knot belonged to. So as to bring more smiles to Theo’s face, Blaise decided to send you a letter… only he sent it to you under Theo’s name and not his own.

While he knew that you were rather smart and observant, he didn’t realize that you would recognize his handwriting. So he couldn’t help but be shocked by the response that you had sent Theo, along with another knot.

“Dear Blaise,

Yes! I know it’s you, don’t think that just because we were only partners for the first couple of months in Potions I wouldn’t recognize your handwriting when I saw it. I mean, honestly, I’m a bit disappointed you didn’t recognize a fellow observant person. And while I appreciate the sentiment of your letter, please don’t you ever do that again, because I swear to god I will stuff a quill up your ass and make sure it stays there. 

Now Theo, I’m happy knowing that you enjoyed my knot. And while I’m sad you never sent me a letter in response, I could understand why. I don’t typically share my identity with students who receive my surprise knots, but I will with you. My name is Y/N Y/L/N, I’m a fifth year Hufflepuff, and sadly enough I had to deal with your friend Zabini for the first half of the year in potions. I will happily make you more knots if you want, just send me a letter!

Love,

The Knot Puff”

Theo couldn’t help but slap Blaise on the back of his head lightly, “Why’d you have to go and write to her?”

“Please, I was doing you a favor,” Theo continued to glare at him, “Ok, it was more like I was doing myself a favor. You wouldn’t stop moping when you wouldn’t get a package so I figured I’d make sure that she’d send you one.”

Theo looked down at the small knot that you had sent him and couldn’t help but smile. This time it was a golden yellow, the color typically associated with your house. He went and tied it next to the first one he had received from you and couldn’t help but feel giddy at the fact that he’d be able to receive more from you.

He thought about it and decided to write to you straight away. The letter was rather simple, but then again so was he. All it said:

“Thank you for the yellow knot. It complements the green one I got very well. I was wondering if you had any light pink colors that you could use to make the next one. That was my mother’s favorite color. -Teddy Nott”

And that’s how your relationship started. It was slow but extremely sweet. You weren’t sure when, probably another time when Blaise pushed Theo, but it went from sending letters and knots to getting Butterbeer at The Three Broomsticks and teaching him how to actually make all your designs at night in either the Slytherin or Hufflepuff common room. There were times when the two of you would act, as Blaise called it, all “lovey-dovey” to the point where he would groan in frustration at the two of you. 

When that would happen, you would merely send him a look, “You know, if I remember correctly it was your idea to send me a letter in the first place so you can’t go around and complain about us being in a relationship now.”

You couldn’t wait to finally be able to call your Theo your husband. You fixed the knots that you had made for today, wrapping them around your wrists as bracelets. There were three: a yellow, a green, and a light pink. The best part was that Theo didn’t even know you were doing this, you got to surprise your love once again on your wedding day. 

As you stared at yourself in the mirror, you saw a head pop into the room through the reflection. It was the man who started this relationship in the first place.

“You ready to go darling,” Blaise stepped into the room with his black suit all prepared and a little pink rose sticking out of his suit.

You could only nod feeling a rush of emotions go through you as you realized that it was time for you to walk down the aisle.

Blaise saw straight through you, “Y/N I know you are probably feeling a lot right now, but I need you to hold those tears in till later because Theo would probably kill me if he saw you crying before you finished walking down the aisle.”

“Oh please,” you sniffled, “We’ll both be sobbing by the time we get to the altar, and besides I know for a fact you are going to shed a few tears yourself.” You smirked.

Blaise walked you out of the room you were in and down the stairs, leading you to the backyard of the house you were in. After everything that had happened, you and Theo had decided on a small wedding consisting of close friends and family. Your friends like Hermione, Ginny, and Luna had come alongside their partners and Theo’s friends like Draco and Daphne Greengrass had also come with their partners. If anyone had told you years ago that your two completely different friend groups would be all together in one venue, you would have laughed in their face. But the war and the pain that you all shared made you learn to move on and forgive one another for everything that happened. 

Just like you told Blaise, Theo and you had started sobbing before you had even finished walking down the aisle. Theo couldn’t help but cry harder at the knots that you had wrapped around your wrist. To him, they were so much more than just pretty designs, they were a symbol of how your relationship started and how much you loved one another, nothing could break the bond between the two of you. And in a way, it was all thanks to that fateful letter Blaise had sent that random Wednesday.